


Whispers in the Dark

by Lethe9



Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Action/Adventure, Adventure, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, F/M, Riften, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-31
Updated: 2016-09-01
Packaged: 2018-08-12 03:24:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 11
Words: 22,609
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7918579
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lethe9/pseuds/Lethe9
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ten cold years have passed since the Dragonborn vanquished Alduin the World-Eater and disappeared without a trace. Life went on for the peoples of Skyrim: the Legion put down the Stormcloak Rebellion, dragons no longer rose from their graves, and prosperity returned. </p><p>Adaliah, a Breton mercenary, lives a hard, nomadic life on the Nordic tundra. Along with her battemage friend and mentor, Wynn, she travels the land seeking to escape her dark past. However, the touch of an old flame pitches her into a battle she cannot hope to win: not of men, but of gods...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Recipe for Disaster

Dawn was rising and the sun just beginning to crest the white-peaked mountains when the two mercenaries returned to Whiterun. Their names were Wynn and Adaliah. The first was a grizzled old Nord, strong as an ox, with an alert expression that missed nothing. The second was a small, slight girl; a Breton. Her straight dark hair fluttered smoothly beneath her hood, framing her pale thin face and unfathomable black eyes. They both wore leather armour and grey cloaks, under which their weapons glinted subtly.

The mercenaries did not live in Whiterun; indeed, they did not live anywhere. They considered Whiterun to be their home because they liked the inn and the towering citadel from which they could watch the wild, barren plains. Besides, this was where they'd met.

Their relationship puzzled the people of Whiterun. There were many who remarked how strange it was for a girl like Adaliah, soft-spoken with such gentle features, to be unmarried - even if she was only a Breton. And how improper for her to take a mercenary as her a companion! But though Adaliah was very small, she was not as young as she appeared, and wiser in the world than most. She wore her solitude like a coat of armour. Wynn was the only person she'd ever trusted, to her both a father and a brother, and she followed wherever he went.

That evening, Adaliah and Wynn visited the Bannered Mare, a favourite haunt of theirs. They were completely immersed in ale and the vivid retellings of old adventures when they were approached by a middle-aged Nord woman. She was very burly and severe-looking, clad in well-worn Imperial armor with a small war axe hanging at her broad hip. Wynn looked at her scathingly, for he had sided with the Stormcloaks in Ulfric's Rebellion.

"I'm looking for the two best swords in Whiterun," she asked them haughtily, "Would that be you?"

"That depends," replied Wynn wryly, "If you ask me, the best of anything are never so cheap as to be bought in an alehouse - with two obvious exceptions." Catching Adaliah's eye the old man muttered, "Mead and whores".

The woman was not charmed. "Am I to understand that you are not mercenaries? Or is your living so comfortable that you can afford to offend your clients?" Her eyebrows drew together piercingly.

Adaliah snorted into her tankard, earning herself another glare from the woman. Wynn always did the talking, always chose which jobs they accepted, and he had, indeed, lost a few with his barbed tongue.

"I certainly am most selective in my clients, madam," he quipped, "For...what it the saying... 'Better an empty pocket than a full grave'?"

Their client looked puzzled and exasperated. To spare her a further tongue-lashing from Wynn, Adaliah asked for her name.

"Rhawn," she replied, "Of Winterhold."

"The mercenaries Wynn and Adaliah are at your service, Rhawn of Winterhold," the old warrior said, suddenly business-like, "Please sit down, and we can discuss terms."

***

As they'd assumed, Rhawn was indeed an Imperial officer. Her name suited both her strong figure and surly personality. Her request was simple : Adaliah and Wynn were to provide support to her small team in ridding the ruins of Helgen of their bandits. Adaliah pondered this as she climbed into her bed that night.

"It doesn't seem overly complicated", remarked Adaliah into the darkness. A long evening of storytelling, ale and fistfights had left her with a pleasant buzz and a heavier coin purse, but she wasn't yet sleepy.

Wynn stirred groggily in the bed across the room. "Yes, Liah, that's true. However, I can't help but feel suspicious of the whole affair. Maybe it's just my mind starting to go..." Adaliah rolled her eyes. Despite his mid-sixties age, she had never met anyone sharper than Wynn.

"It seems to me", he continued, "That the job is simple. So simple, in fact, that Rhawn should have been able to manage it herself. Did you see her armour? Well worn, expertly cared for - we have not been hired by an amateur."

"We're cleaning out a bandit nest," said Adaliah, "Perhaps she fears their numbers?"

"She's an Imperial officer; she has numbers. Why would she come to us? Waste her own coin? And we're not even to do the job alone, we're offering her _assistance_."He sighed deeply. It was very dark, but Adaliah imagined him stroking his short grey beard thoughtfully. Within minutes, the sigh turned into snores as deep and loud as a cave bear's.

***

They met Rhawn of Winterhold, as agreed, outside the gates of Whiterun at dawn. The city's people were only just beginning to stir: Belethor's assistant chopping wood for the day, and Adrianna of Warmaiden's waking her forge. Their client was already there, waiting for them, but they were very surprised to find that she was not alone: two men stood near her, one a tall Nord warrior, the other a shrivelled cat-mage. Wynn called out a greeting as they approached.

"Mercenary Wynn," Rhawn replied shortly, "I trust last night's ale will not hinder our mission today?"

Wynn grinned wickedly, "A true Nord spends nights with an ale in one hand and a woman in the other, yet rises at dawn with steel in hand."

Rhawn scowled and turned away. "Allow me to introduce my companions: Tristan of Winterhold, and the cat-mage Septhis."

Adaliah and Wynn nodded at the men. The first was long and lean, with a shaved head and a fine, open face. Like Rhawn, his Imperial armour bore signs of frequent use, and though he was slender, Adaliah noted the thick bands of muscles around his arms. The mage was an elderly, stooped Khajiit, whose thick robes did not conceal the hump of his shoulders, nor his impatiently twitching tail.

"Pleasure," said Wynn airily, "Though I feel obliged to assure you that Liah and I can handle this job without further assistance."

"This is my mission, and these are my personal companion," Rhawn said firmly. Adaliah and Wynn exchanged a glance; Wynn's brow was furrowed. It was not often they came across clients who wanted to risk both their coin and their lives. Finding no further argument, Wynn instead began to chatter at the Khajiit Septhis as the group made its way to the stables.

"He doesn't talk," the tall warrior, Tristan, interjected, "Septhis can't speak our tongue." The Khajiit bared his upper teeth in agreement.

"Interesting," said Wynn lightly, "And yet he understands?"

"Yes. I think he's simply too old to learn how to make the sounds of our language."

"You're never too old to make a change", said Adaliah, and Wynn smiled at her.

Their destination was a day's ride away following a winding mountain path. As they made their way across the foothills of Whiterun Hold, Adaliah found herself riding near Tristan, who asked her friendly questions about life as a sellsword and the various jobs they'd taken on. Though determined to be polite, Adaliah generally found small talk irritating and maintained a rather distant demeanor.

"I've often thought mercenary work might suit me," Tristan remarked in response to one of her answers.

"I'm sure your family would not much like your being away all the time," she replied coolly.

"Oh, I'm not married. I was caring for my mother in Morthal until last year, when she passed, so I've been thinking of trying odd jobs since then. Now that I can travel, you know..." There was a pause as his voice trailed off.

"I'm sorry for your loss."

"Thank you, but it was her time. She lived a good life." Tristan changed the subject, "Is the old one - Wynn - a relative of yours?"

"Not by blood," she said carefully, "But he is like family."

He nodded. "I can understand that. Rhawn is like family to me, too. We served in the Legion together during Ulfric's rebellion."

Adaliah wondered about his not being married - he was easily ten years older than she- but thought it rude to ask. Instead, she commented, "I am at a loss as to what she wants in Helgen. I thought the place was a ruin since that dragon attack".

"I truly don't know," Tristan shrugged, "She was quiet about the whole thing, which makes me think that it's Legion business."

Adaliah pondered that, wondering what Wynn would make of that new information.

"So you grew up in Whiterun?" Tristan asked, ignorant of her distraction. Adaliah tensed at the question - _caution_ , she told herself, _always caution.. for her safety and Wynn's too..._

"I travelled here from High Rock a little at a time, doing mercenary work". The lie, Wynn said, was always best obscured with a little truth. "I met Wynn fighting some trolls near Riften".

"Really? I've only once met a troll, and thank the divines my pa was there to fight it off..."

Adaliah laughed politely and allowed the conversation to follow these less dangerous paths as the sun rose high in the sky.

***

Adaliah crept through the woods with practiced silence. No birds, nor wolves, nor human ear could tell of her movement. The sun was setting on Helgen, the mountains awash in rose and gold.

Suddenly, she held out her arm to stop Wynn, who followed behind, pointing to a bandit she had spotted atop the shoddy wooden wall. A man in an iron helm patrolled back and forth, carrying an axe in one hand and a bottle of ale in the other. A second guard was visible father down the wall.

She carefully knocked an ebony arrow and, after a nod from Wynn, let it fly. It whistled faintly as it split the night, but the bandit did not notice until it pierced his breast and he toppled forward. His companion, noticing a disturbance, hurried closer to investigate, but as soon as he was within range, Wynn silently conjured his destruction magic and incinerated his target in an explosion of flame.

"They might have heard that," hissed Tristan as he and Rhawn approached from behind. But the town remained dark and still, and together the company passed through the open gates .

The ruins, blackened by dragonfire, were crumbling and decrepit, but the old town showed signs of habitation. Salted meat hung drying on the rack and an alchemy table was visible along the interior walls, as was an active forge and bellows. Bandits and thugs, unaware of the intrusion, were scattered around, mostly drinking and gambling, but all were armed. Adaliah aimed her bow once more and managed to bring down two, but as Wynn loosed a Firebolt spell, their enemies finally realised the danger and charged.

Blood rushed in Adaliah's ears as she drew her daggers. When a large, steel-clad she-bandit swung her warhammer at Adaliah with a cry of "Skyrim belongs to the Nords!" she was ready: she pounced, getting under the woman's guard, going for the throat. After drawing blood, she spun away, and the bandit was consumed by a fire spell of Wynn's.

Around the clearing, chaos reigned. Septhis sent shock spells knifing through the air like flashes of death, and Rhawn and Tristan battled mightily with a pair of orcs beneath the walls of the keep. The bandits were well-armed and fierce, but it was clear that none would match the combat prowess of herself and Wynn. When Adaliah dove and slashed, Wynn warded off incoming blows. When he struck out with sword or with fire, Adaliah covered his back. They attacked, retreated, killed with beautiful synchronization; death danced circles around them but they could not be caught themselves. A fierce laugh tore from Adaliah's lips as foe after foe fell before them.

When none were left to stand in their way, they ran, sweating and shaking with the heat of battle, to join their companions. "The chief," Adaliah panted to Rhawn, "Where would he be?"

"Probably under the keep" cried Rhawn, leading them to a previously unnoticed cellar door beneath the ruined tower. The five of them slipped below, and found themselves in a dark, eerily silent stone tunnel.

"Is anyone hurt?" barked Wynn, casting a Magelight on the cold wall. Septhis was working a healing spell on his arm, which was badly burnt. Tristan held his hand to his forehead, which bled steadily down his face.

"Nothing - just a scratch," he said with a grimace when he saw Adaliah looking.

"Nothing serious," Rhawn confirmed, glancing around, "The chief is probably down this corridor somewhere."

They crept along, their stealth hindered by Tristan and Rhawn, who bumped and clanged. However, they encountered no one, just empty beds and the charred corpses of skeevers.

"I have a bad feeling about this," muttered Tristan. Septhis' tail fluffed up in apprehension.

"Look!" hissed Adaliah.

A doorway, ajar, from which poured forth warm, flickering firelight.

"The chief's chamber!" whispered Rhawn, "I'll go, he must be dealt with quickly-"

"Liah will go!" interrupted Wynn sharply, then turned to her and muttered. "As quickly as you can, little one."

Adaliah nodded and drew her bow. She noiselessly peered into the room - the bandit chief, there, standing before the fire! His back was to the door - too easy! She slipped into the chamber, smoothly drew her bow and fired. The shot pierced the back of the chief's neck; he hit the mantle and fell backwards, belly up on the goatskin rug.

She made a small noise of satisfaction and stepped forwards to search his body - one of the many perks of being a mercenary - before she stopped short. Something was wrong.

The neck, skewered by her ebony arrow, was not bleeding: no hot red gush, no smell of rust and salt, just the rotting stench of death. The bandit's cloths were black with dried, hardened blood - hours old. And his shirt was torn across the stomach where a sword has pierced his flesh.

"I've been waiting here for hours, lass. What took you?"

Adaliah jumped, dropping her enchanted bow with a metallic clatter. She knew that voice. Her eyes searched the shadows.

And there, reclining like a king on the dead man's bed, red hair tumbling about his roguish face, was Brynjolf of the Thieves' Guild.


	2. With Friends Like These...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Adaliah confronts a passionate memory and Brynjolf senses trouble in Oblivion. Tristan wonders about their past.

Time seemed to hold its breath as a thousand memories rushed to the front of Adaliah's mind. The words, the touches that had meant everything then nothing, the nights of heat and closeness...But it was all gone in a flash, leaving just Brynjolf in the fire-lit room, staring through her soul with those familiar, piercing green eyes.

The silence stretched on. Adalaih felt it was a contest and she could not lose; her hands shook. Finally, Brynjolf sighed, "You haven't changed a bit, lass. Stubborn as ever."

She raised her chin a fraction, trying to ignore the purr in his seductive accent. "What are you doing here?"

"I told you - waiting. I even did your work for you." He gestured distastefully at the corpse on the floor. "You know I prefer to avoid murder, but he owed us money and like as not he was never going to cough up..."

"Adaliah?" Wynn pushed open the door. Catching sight of Brynjolf, he cursed and drew his blade, but Adaliah placed a hand on his shoulder.

"It's all right, Wynn, I know this man from...before." They exchanged a meaningful glance. Wynn's lips pressed together in disapproval, but he sheathed his blade as the others filed in.

Tristan looked around, bemused, but Rhawn saw the hours-dead body sprawled on the floor. "What in the Eight is going on here?" she exclaimed.

"Excellent question", said Wynn quietly, staring at Brynjolf with dislike.

But Brynjolf just smiled at Adaliah. "It's good to see you, lass. The Cistern is duller without your visits."

Adaliah willed herself to hold his gaze. "Don't let Tonilia hear you say that."

His warm face soured. "Don't start with that business, I've only just arrived. And this is the last place I would have liked to meet, believe me..." Brynjolf glanced at Wynn. "Is this your new man, lass? Bit old for you, don't you think? Though I suppose it's not all that different from Vex and Delvin..."

"Shut your mouth, boy, or I'll shut it for you," Wynn snarled, but Rhawn spoke over them both.

"I don't understand", she said, inspecting the chief's body, "My superiors said that there would be a troupe of warlocks, highly skilled... and that I shouldn't risk any of my own soldiers..." She looked at Adaliah, thinking hard. "Yet he was killed but such a simple blow..."

Low laughter rumbled forth from Brynjolf's lips. "One of my better ideas, that one. I had one of my lads plant that little tale. After all, if I had approached Adaliah out of the blue myself, I might not have survived - if I'd have been able to find her at all. So instead, I had her delivered..."

"What do you want," said Adaliah flatly. She knew better than to let Brynjolf start spinning his manipulative schemes.

He dropped the mocking facade and became serious. "I need to talk to you, lass. No one has seen hide nor hair of you for five years. Your 'family' would have us believe you were dead... but I knew you better than that. So I began searching..."

"And what do you want?" she repeated.

"To talk about what's been happening lately. My people are in trouble, and word around the Flagon is that yours are too."

"They're not my people anymore, Brynjolf," said Adaliah sharply, "I left that life behind me."

"Did you?" he raised an eyebrow, "Can you just leave a 'family' like yours in the past? Does a stain like that ever wash away? Is it possible to-"

"Enough, Brynjolf," she snapped. She was all too aware of Tristan and Rhawn's attention.

He looked at her for a long moment, gauging the angry red patches on her cheeks, then ducked his head in false repentance.

"Apologies," he said carelessly, "But it's taken me two years of my guild's resources to track you down. Hence, my frustration. I'm not about to let all of my invested time and money go to waste."

Adaliah believed him: if there was one thing that Brynjolf hated, it was a job unfinished... and if he'd found her once he could surely find her again. She felt Wynn's disapproval as his gaze bored into the side of her face, but stronger than that, she felt the pull of intrigue and mystery; the dark glamour of a fell conspiracy and the shining rewards that follow. "I left this behind me," she thought, but her resolve was weakened by Brynjolf's presence. She turned back to him, his green eyes glowing in the yellow flames.

Her voice was scarcely above a whisper. "When and where?"

***

"Make sure this letter gets to Legate Rikke," Rhawn ordered Tristan. "It's a confirmation of our Helgen occupation. Also, let Jarl Balgruff's people know that we're refortifying the town, and he'll need to release some soldiers to help garrison the place." Tristan nodded dutifully and pocketed the small scroll.

Adaliah, Wynn, Rhawn and Tristan stood before the Helgen gates. Rhawn tossed a heavy purse of gold to Wynn. "For your services. You were satisfactory yesterday and you have the Legion's gratitude".

Wynn smirked at the officer's stony thanks, and together he, Adaliah, and Tristan set out from the ruined town site. They were quiet as they rode, winding quickly down the mountain path. Shortly after passing through Riverwood, they came upon a pair of Skimitar-wielding warriors hunting a Redguard fugitive, but otherwise their progress was unhindered.

It wasn't until they emerged from the mountains at last and Whiterun was distantly in sight, that Wynn broached the topic of Brynjolf.

"So, we meet the thief at Honningbrew Meadery tomorrow at midday... and then what? What could that man possibly want?" Though he spoke in mutters to keep Tristan, riding ahead, from hearing, Adaliah could feel the anger in his flat voice and she understood. Five years he'd helped her hide from those who wished to hunt her down; five hard years of constant flight and secrecy. She was ashamed that, after all his sacrifice, she'd been tempted into meeting Brynjolf who was, if nothing else, a most passionate enemy.

"We don't have to meet him," she said softly, peacemaking, "He doesn't expect us until tomorrow... we have a night's head start to disappear".

"The game is up, Liah!" Wynn replied sternly, "It doesn't matter whether we meet or not - he found you. And if the Guild can find you, you know the... _others_ can, too".

There was truth in his harsh words, and Adaliah should have felt a numbing fear, but instead she struggled to repress the twinge of excitement in her belly. A contract, after all these years: a plot, a conspiracy, a quest balancing on the edge of a knife and she wielded the blade...

Tristan slowed his horse to join their conversation. "So, Honningbrew Meadery, eh? Who exactly was that red-haired man?" Adaliah ignored him, but Wynn turned to answer.

"No one you want to meet on a dark night, boy. Now, there's the Western Watchtower - we make camp there until daybreak."

Adaliah took the first watch, leaning back against the abandoned stone walls, warmed by a small, crackling fire. Wynn slept deeply, snoring as usual, with his blade in hand. But Tristan was restless, tossing and turning until he finally sat up, rubbing his eyes.

"Why don't you let me take over?" he said to her, "I can't sleep anyway."

She nodded and crawled over to her bed roll, setting down her bow within reach. But as she began to close her eyes, Tristan spoke.

"So you and the redhead in Helgen...?" His voice trailed off suggestively.

In response, Adaliah propped her head on her elbow and looked him square in the eye. He immediately realized he'd overstepped.

"I'm sorry - it's really none of my affair," he apologized awkwardly.

"That's alright," she said softly, as not to wake Wynn. Tristan nodded, flushing, and looked through the decrepit gate into the starry night. The air outside was cold and still.

Adaliah spoke slowly, surprising herself, "We were together a long time ago, and not for very long. I was younger, and more foolish... I'm better off now".

Tristan also seemed shocked by her unexpected honesty. "And he's a member of the...?"

"Thieves' Guild, yes."

"Then... so were you?"

"No," said Adaliah, beginning with truth, "But as a mercenary we've encountered them from time to time and I gained an insight into their world."

"And what did you think of their world?"

"It is not a life I would want for myself." Truth and lies, such an elaborate dance! She narrowed her eyes at the tall warrior. "You ask many questions, soldier."

He smiled lightly, and they were silent for a while before Tristan suddenly said, "I knew a girl like that once."

"A thief?"

"No - just a girl. Her name was Catelin... I called her Cat."

Adaliah was not sure what Tristan's point was, so she nodded politely, trying to keep her tired eyes from drifting shut.

"We met twelve years ago. I would have married her in a heartbeat. But this was all during the Stormcloak rebellion, and I was a Legion soldier. Catelin thought Ulfric was in the right, and ran off the join him... and that was the end for us. But every skirmish, every ambush, I was terrified that I would have to fight her." His face was distant, his blue eyes sad.

"It's not really the same situation," Adaliah corrected quietly, but Tristan shook his head.

"It is, though, Adaliah," he argued, "I was so lost without her, for a time. But think what would have happened if I would have followed her to Windhelm: I would have been defeated, held as a war prisoner or criminal, or I might have died! So my heart was broken... but I'm better off, too."

Adaliah looked at him thoughtfully. She'd never thought of Brynjolf as a blessing; even when they were together, she'd known he was a curse to the core. "If it weren't for Brynjolf," she wondered aloud, "I never would have met Wynn."

"Yes," Tristan smiled, "We're both stronger now."

She lay her head down on her bedroll and, strangely, her heart felt lighter than it had all day.

***

Adaliah and Wynn said goodbye to Tristan just before midday. As he carried on to Whiterun to fulfill his orders from Rhawn, the two of them hastened to their mysterious meeting. Honningbrew Meadery was just as Adaliah remembered: warm, spacious, with a woodsy, flavourful smell that she had come to associate with taverns. Mallus showed them to a private room upstairs, where Brynjolf waited at a wooden table, toying absentmindedly with a golden decanter. He looked up as they entered.

"Let's make this quick, lass - I've got important things to do."

Adaliah nodded curtly, and she and Wynn sat down.

"So Maven Black-Briar still has a foothold here, does she?" she commented, looking around.

Brynjolf grinned roguishly. "You bet, lass. Richer than ever, which would be excellent for the Guild if not for the situation..."

"Which is?" asked Wynn darkly. He leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, stroking his beard.

Brynjolf eyed him for a moment, deliberating, then said softly, "Nocturnal's gone quiet."

Adaliah frowned. "Is that unusual? I'm sure she has other concerns than your trite human lives."

"It's different this time. It hasn't been days, weeks or months - much longer than that. Years."

"How many?"

"Three. Three long, unlucky years."

"Wait a minute," interrupted Wynn, "Who is Nocturnal?"

Brynjolf snorted as Adaliah quickly explained, "She's the daedric patron of the guild, guardian of shadows; their 'divine', so to speak."

"The last time she turned her back on us, it was as a punishment and we were nearly destroyed," said Brynjolf flatly. "Karliah doesn't understand it; the Sepulcher is secure, the Skeleton Key hidden... We haven't done anything wrong."

Adaliah tensed, suddenly wary. "And what do you expect me to do about it? I'm not in your Guild."

"You know what," he replied, smiling grimly. "You're sworn to darkness, as I am. Nocturnal touched you, blessed you. You need to help me save her."

"Save? What do you mean, 'save'?" barked Wynn sharply.

Brynjolf rolled his eyes. "Haven't you been listening, old man? Nocturnal is a daedric prince and the only contact she ever has with mortals is through the Nightengales. If she - an immortal - has gone quiet for this long, then something is going very wrong."

"But there's nothing in Tamriel that could possibly threaten the Night Mistress," said Adaliah.

"I know it, lass. The threat to Nocturnal must come from Oblivion."

In spite of everything, Adaliah found herself leaning in, perched in suspense on the edge of her wooden chair.

He continued, "As if all this isn't odd enough, we've heard a rumour: your people have stopped taking contracts. They pull out of business at the same time Nocturnal disappears? It can't be a coincidence... they know what's going on."

"Have you asked them?" Wynn cut in coldly.

Brynjolf turned his mocking gaze, "You think we didn't try, old man? I spent a good three months trying to get in touch. Nothing worked; not even old Delvin could make contact." He looked back to Adaliah. "But I'd heard that you, lass, had disappeared from their ranks... which made you the only way the Guild has to contact them."

"How long..."

"-to track you down? Two years. Two miserable years! While my Guild fell to shambles around me..." He put a hand over his face, and his voice trailed off despairingly.

Adaliah was almost fooled.

"So what do you want from me?" she repeated her earlier question. Conflicting desires warred within her.

Brynjolf dropped his hand and looked at her, intensity blazing in his green eyes. "I need to restore Nocturnal. But I can't do that without more information. And I need you to get that information for me, from your people."

Her blood ran cold. "My people?"

"Your family. The Dark Brotherhood."


	3. Sanctuary

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wynn angrily agrees to Adaliah's plan to visit the Dark Brotherhood Sanctuary. A tense reunion follows.

"You're bloody mad, girl," growled Wynn. They were back at The Bannered Mare in Whiterun, tucked into a private back table, flagons of ale in hand.

"He found me, Wynn. What choice do I have?" Adaliah drank deep, keeping her voice low.

"We can disappear again, like you said before."

"But if what Brynjolf said is true, we can't ever disappear," she argued. There was a pause, and Adaliah dropped her voice. "When I was… spending time with the Thieves' Guild, I became close to the Nightengales and I received Nocturnal's blessing. She favoured me; she helps me move in the shadows when I want to. If Nocturnal is compromised, there's nowhere in Tamriel they wouldn't be able to find us."

Wynn narrowed his eyes shrewdly. "You are saying, you realize, that you'll walk willingly into the Brotherhood's Sanctuary? Expose yourself for the first time in five years?"

"I know."

"You don't know how they'll receive you."

"I know that too."

The corners of Wynn's mouth drew tight but Adaliah continued persuasively, "If we do as Brynjolf asks and restore Nocturnal, we can vanish forever without a trace. How else do you think they found us in the first place? Nocturnal wasn't there to protect me."

"You're an assassin, not a thief."

She shrugged, "I've lived my life in shadow; Nocturnal doesn't care what for."

"But it matters, Liah!" he growled, "You gave it all up. You walked away from it all. We haven't been living as nomads for five years so you can run back to Brynjolf the moment he calls."

Adaliah winced at that, and Wynn's voice dropped to a hiss. "Tell me the truth: how badly do you miss it?"

She could not lie to Wynn; for five years, they had shared everything. Her voice came out in a mortified whisper, "I do miss it. It was a part of me, all I ever knew... of course I miss that life sometimes. But Wynn, " she looked pleadingly into his grizzled face, "I also know I was right to leave. I'm happy, working with you. Even if we do help Brynjolf and I see the Brotherhood, I could never go back to that life."

Sincerity rang in her every word, but Adaliah wondered if Wynn could sense the intrigue, the attraction that the dark world of shadows and knives would always hold for her...

A frown creased his brow as he looked down into his empty tankard. "If you think this is right, Liah, then I trust your judgement. But I warn you: don't get in too deep. Walking away from your past will be as hard again as it was the first time."

Adaliah nodded and drained her ale.

"That reminds me," Wynn said briskly, "I think we should have Tristan join us".

"Really?" Adaliah was surprised - Wynn was notoriously choosy about who they shared work with.

"Just as a guard; he mentioned he was interested in mercenary work. And I got a good feeling from him before. Besides, if we're going to be in the Dark Brotherhood's backyard, I want as much steel around us as possible..."

She grinned, "Rhawn too, then?"

Wynn growled, rolling his eyes, and his complaints about their last client took them long into the evening.

***

The journey from Whiterun to Falkreath tool several days on horseback. Wynn was surly and quiet throughout and Adaliah found herself being quite glad that Tristan has agreed to join their party. He was happy to fill the long silence with his easy, friendly conversation.

Adaliah soon learned quite a bit about her new companion. Tristan was taller by far than either of his parents, but the shortest of three brothers. He had grown up in the cold wetlands of Morthal and joined the Legion at sixteen. He loved the mountains, was good with a sword, and had a horror of vampires. He couldn't sing worth a damn.

While she enjoyed his lighthearted banter, Adaliah could not help feeling apprehensive. As he reminisced fondly of his past, she pondered her own dark history; stories she could never easily share. Inducted into the Dark Brotherhood before she was fourteen, where she began a bloody career as one of the most notorious cutthroats in the guild's history. She eyed Tristan warily as he spoke in his quiet, pleasant voice. He was handsome, with that regal profile and bright blue eyes, and kind to her. If he'd known her secret - that she was a deadly shadow; a knife in the darkness - would he turn away in hatred? Surely he would be disgusted and fearful - and rightly so! She was lethal, dangerous, monstrous. An abomination in the guise of a slight, dark-haired girl. And now she was about to confront her past, with him in tow...

"Adaliah?" He had noticed her preoccupation. "Are you all right?"

She smiled blandly, "Oh yes. Sorry... you were saying?"

***

It was a relief, despite the mission Adaliah was dreading, to arrive in Falkreath. The last days of their travels had been bitterly cold, alternating between snow and rain, and the moist chill clung to the mountains like fog to a river. Shivering, the trio gratefully sipped the cups of steaming broth that were set before them by Valga, the innkeep of Dead Man's Drink.

"Thank the Nine we're here," Wynn growled.

Tristan nodded fervently in agreement, but Adaliah was already feeling anxious again. They were so close now to the family she'd left behind. She could not imagine facing them after being gone for so long. It was not their anger that frightened her; it was their sense of betrayal, which could quickly turn violent. Through she was not defenceless herself, Adaliah was not so arrogant as to face a nest of furious assassins without dread. Her hope was that her reputation would make them pause, at least, before they struck - giving her a few precious seconds to communicate.

"Adaliah?" Tristan's words pulled her, once again, out of her own thoughts. A frown creased his brow. "You haven't been yourself all day. Is something wrong?"

Wynn's gaze flashed to hers, warning her to be discreet: Tristan knew nothing of their true mission, after all.

"Just tired," she said levelly, returning to her broth. His clear blue eyes studied her a moment longer before looking away.

The three warriors, exhausted by their travels, turned in early that night. However, Tristan was the only one who slept: Adaliah and Wynn sat side-by-side on her bed, discussing strategy.

"It needs to be now," she explained swiftly, "It needs to be tonight."

Wynn looked troubled. "I would prefer daylight, Liah..."

"You're not coming at all," she replied flatly, and he bristled.

"You can't possibly think - ", he began furiously, but she cut him short.                              

"If you walk with me into the Sanctuary, it will mean certain death for us both. It has to be me, alone, and it has to be now."

The muscles in his neck taut, Wynn struggled to speak calmly. "Why right now?"

"Because if they don't know I'm here now, then they will within hours. I need to establish contact first, before they try to kill me, or you, or Tristan if they know he's with us."

Wynn glared at her, and there was a long pause as his clever eyes swept over her face.

"You're sure this is the best way, little one?"

"It's the only way - I'm sure of it." Adaliah worked to keep her tone firm, trying not to think of what she was about to do.

He nodded, resigned, then gently kissed her brow. "Swift and quiet, Liah. Talos be with you."

She stood in a fluid movement, drawing her hood over her head and letting her dark hair fall around her face. Reaching deep into herself, into her past, she pulled the persona of the assassin from a sealed vault of memories. Her face smoothed into a mask and her eyes became cold and distant; her legs coiled, stealthy and prepared to spring; her left hand tingled with Illusion magic and her right itched for her dagger. She did not look back as she left the inn, leaving the mercenary Liah behind her.

For the first time in five years, the assassin Adaliah crept into the cold night.

***

" _What is the music of life_?" the ethereal voice breathed from within the Black Door.

She spoke the answer softly, as not to betray her fear. "Silence, my brother."

" _Welcome home_ ". It slid open noiselessly, revealing the Sanctuary's warm red glow. Steeling her heart, Adaliah stepped inside.

They were expecting her, of course. She wondered how soon after she'd arrived in Falkreath has they known of her return. They waited in the antechamber, at the bottom of the red-washed stairs, hoods up and blades drawn - greeting an enemy. Only Astrid, the Sanctuary leader, and her husband, Arnbjorn, had their faces exposed, though Adaliah knew the members so well she could have named them all easily. Her eyes sought Astrid's face, and she was not encouraged by what she saw there: teeth bared angrily, eyes narrowed in suspicion.

Her husband, however, greeted her with a large, feral grin. "Hey, Beefroast!" Astrid silenced him with a hiss.

"So, Daliah," she spoke in her deep, sultry voice, "You've come home to us at last."

Adaliah inclined her head respectfully. "At last... I have been too long away. Greetings, Astrid... and my lost brothers and sisters."

"You seem sure of your welcome."

"I have no reason to expect otherwise."

"No reason?" a strained cry burst forth from the cloaked figure to Astrid's left. Adaliah recognized Festus Krex, an old mentor of hers. The mage crouched threateningly and let Destruction magic ripple across his palms, ignoring Astrid's warning glare. "I searched for you, girl, everywhere in Skyrim. No one hides from me: you were dead, taken into Oblivion!"

She forced a wide, cool smile. "And yet, here I stand. Are you not relieved, teacher?"

Spluttering, Krex fell silent and another red cloak spoke - and there was no mistaking the deep, rumbling voice.

"Is this going to be a more permanent stay, little sister?"

"Nazir," she greeted him with a rush of joy; he had been a true friend, years ago. "I'm afraid this is a simple visit. I came to reunite with my beloved family, if only briefly, and to take some rest at home in our Sanctuary".

Astrid was unimpressed. "I do not recall offering such... _liberal_... terms of employment." The daggers around her glinted menacingly.

Adaliah fought to keep her voice impassive. "And I do not recall the Five Tenets forbidding such a thing." Some of the assassins muttered at that, though Astrid's eyes gleamed in rage, and Krex gave his cackling laugh. Adaliah spread her arms wide in a peaceful gesture.

"Brothers, I know I have long been away and for this I beg your forgiveness. I have wandered Skyrim, searching my soul, moving through Nocturnal's darkness, and I return to rest my weary head among my fellows." She thought she saw the silvery weapons lower slightly, and continued in softer tones. "Truthfully, I also sought to make certain of your welfare... there are rumours in Skyrim that the Dark Brotherhood suffers. I am relieved to see that all of you are well..."

The Brotherhood looked to Astrid, whose expression was fierce. Adaliah's heart pounded in fear, and it took a great effort of will to stop herself reaching for her blade.

Finally, Astrid said quietly, "Peace, brothers. Give me some time with our lost sister." She turned away to her private chambers, and said over her shoulder, "Come, Daliah." The Brotherhood made way as Adaliah followed. She felt hands touch her arms, her back, with soft murmurs, welcoming her home.

 


	4. Honor Thy Family

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Astrid is not impressed, but offers valuable insight. Boethiah's Cultists pay a visit.

Astrid was as beautiful and intimidating as Adaliah remembered. Her face was full and shapely, framed by locks of lush blonde hair. When she walked, it reminded Adaliah of a sabre cat's lilted gait. And, like most sabre cats, the Sanctuary's leader was glaring at her as if waiting for the best moment to strike.

"You disappeared."

Astrid's voice was low, growling, and Adaliah knew better than to interrupt.

"You were gone. Weeks turned to months... I sent them out looking for you. We searched and searched, the entire province. Finally, we gave up, thinking you were dead. That was five years ago, and today you decide to return... _why_?" Her face blazed in rage.

Adaliah looked her in the eye, deciding it was better to mince words. "You have stopped taking contracts. I worried for the safety of the Brotherhood."

Astrid pressed her lips together. "How could you possibly know about the Dark Brotherhood's dealings if you've been away for five years?"

"I am an agent of darkness, as are you."

"Hmmm," Astrid considered, "You haven't been in contact with the Thieves' Guild, have you?"

Deciding that in this case truth was the better option, Adaliah replied, "That is where I heard the rumour, yes. I take it that Delvin Mallory has been trying to get in touch?"

"That's right. We haven't been very... responsive to his advances. He can be far too interested in the Dark Brotherhood's business".

"Then I'm sure you already know the situation with Lady Nocturnal."

A tense silence filled the room before Astrid replied with a slow smile. "Yes. I was made aware of the Lady's disappearance almost as soon as it took place. It pays to have a family with such as ours, with gifts for stealth and eavesdropping."

"And on whom did they eavesdrop? The Thieves Guild did not realize the change for months." Adaliah shifted her weight impatiently.

The wicked smile on Astrid's face widened. "Now why, by Sithis, would I share that private information with a renegade like yourself? I know that you're more _connected_ " - Adaliah flushed - "to that pack of Riften skeevers than the rest of us, but I was under the impression that you'd disappeared from them, too. And we both know that your appearance here today is not merely a social visit, so tell me: what could you possibly stand to gain from helping them?"

Thinking hard, Adaliah bowed her head in a show of humbleness. "I have lived my life in shadow, with the blessing of Lady Nocturnal. I seek to protect my way of life, and that of the Brotherhood. If it serves the Thieves' Guild also, so be it. But I place my own survival first, as I have always done."

"Finally, an honest answer," Astrid laughed darkly. Her eyes gleamed in satisfaction. "Yes, Nocturnal is gone at the moment and yes, I have pulled the Brotherhood out of Skyrim. But this has less to do with Nocturnal and more to do with Boethiah."

Goosebumps erupted across Adaliah's skin. "The daedric prince of conspiracies and treachery?"

"Oh yes. We became aware of some sort of conflict between the Cult of Boethiah here in Skyrim, and Nocturnal's Thieves' Guild... and the danger was such that I could not allow the Brotherhood to roam Skyrim's shadows any longer. We've been making sufficient coin running jobs in Morrowind, however..."

Adaliah did not care about the Brotherhood's profits. "I do not see why we assassins should be fearful of the cult."

"They are not just a cult any more, darling. Veezara reported to me that they were...possessed. Lifeless thralls with no sense of self, simply slaves to her will. And you know how Beothiah so enjoys violence...Veezara barely made it back alive to report to me. They followed him here, to Falkreath - only our Sanctuary protected us."

"The Sanctuary was discovered?"

"Discovered? No, you foolish girl. The agents are simply highly skilled zombies. They have no intellect, no memory... but they're after something, or someone. Though Riften has suffered far more deaths than us, there was no denying the danger. And besides the risk to my family, we could not run jobs properly without being chased by hordes of Boethiah's faithful, so we have retreated from Skyrim at the moment, until holy Sithis sees fit to save us."

Adaliah's head spun. Boethiah, the most ruthless, violent, and evil daedric lord was hunting those protected by Nocturnal? But the Brotherhood was not, technically, under the protection of the Lady of the Night. She could not make sense of it, but who could understand the motivations of the daedra in Oblivion...

Astrid spoke again, her voice a soft purr."I have missed you, little sister. Always so skilled, so merciless... if times were different I wouldn't allow you to leave until you had proved your loyalty once again."

"There has never been cause to question my loyalty to the Brotherhood."

Astrid laughed. "As you say, Daliah. Go, then... see if you can get Brynjolf to clean up this mess. And when things are as they were, I'll expect you back..." Adaliah heard the lingering threat behind the honeyed words, and suppressed a shudder.

She left the Sanctuary without another word to anyone, though her brothers and sisters waited in the hall, and prayed to Nocturnal that she would never have to return.

***

The moment the Sanctuary door closed securely behind her, she was surrounded. Possessed cultists, dressed in grey robes and wielding distinctive-looking daggers pressed in from among the trees. Orcs, Bretons, Altmer, Nords... every warrior had eyes that glowed with daedric light, and moved with a lethal sense of purpose.

Adaliah did not think, just reacted. One hand, tingling with Illusion magic, cast a spell of invisibility, and the other drew her dagger. Her body disappeared and she moved as quickly as she could away from the center of their ranks. An orc rose to block her way, seemingly able to sense where she was, and Adaliah stabbed him in the chest. To her amazement, he seemed not to notice the strike that would have killed an armored warrior, and lashed out instead with his own dagger. Her invisibility spell broken, Adaliah only just managed to duck in time.

Changing tactics, she cast a spell of Muffle and dodged as quickly as she could into the trees. The cultists pursued her, but they were neither as swift nor as skillful. However, their numbers were plentiful and they managed to clip her right shoulder with one of their blades. The pain nearly caused her to collapse, but upon hearing the thunder of their pursuit, survival instinct took over and she pumped her legs as hard as she could, stumbling through the dark.

The trees turned to dark blurs around her as she fled, clutching her wound. Finally, she could make out the torches of the Falkreath gates and she ran faster, her vision flickering at the edges. She could no longer feel her right arm.

"Stop right there, you!" cried one of the guards, alarmed by her gory figure and the rapidity of her approach. But she did not slow down, and made it through the heavy wooden gates before they swung shut. Adaliah heard the guards yelling and arrows whistling through the night, but the sounds seemed distant.

"Adaliah!" a familiar voice echoed inside her head as her legs gave way. She toppled forwards into the cold, wet mud and her world went quiet.

***

The first thing she became aware of was a steady rocking sensation, which was as comforting as it was confusing. She was very warm, and noticed that her cheek was resting against something that felt like soft leather. Her eyelids flickered as she adjusted to the cool daylight.

"How are you, little one?" Wynn, astride his brown stallion, cantered up to her. She looked around and realized that she was seated behind Tristan as he rode his mare. Her armour was strapped to Tristan's and kept her from sitting up straight. As she moved to undo the straps and buckles she realized that her shoulder was healed.

"I am well." Adaliah looked at Wynn soberly. "Thank you for healing me."

Wynn smiled, his expression soft, and Tristan spoke up. "You scared the life out of us - one moment I was asleep and the next this crazy old man was kicking me awake and you were bleeding out on the porch."

"Watch who you're calling crazy, boy," Wynn bristled with a smile. "You weren't so calm when you thought she was dead."

Adaliah saw Tristan's shaved head shake back and forth. "Yes, well..."

"Where are we?" Adaliah undid the last of the belts and sat straighter, stretching her arms. She noticed that her own mare was being towed by Wynn's horse, who did not seem pleased about the arrangement.

"We're nearing Ivarstead, south of the Throat of the World," Tristan replied.

Ivarstead! So they were heading into the Rift - Wynn must have guessed that a meeting with the Theives' Guild would be inevitable. "How long was I out?"

"Not for too long," said Wynn gruffly, "It's only the afternoon and we've been riding since you were injured. You just needed to sleep off the wound, that was all." Adaliah nodded gratefully.

They had just reached the southern coast of Lake Geir when Wynn ordered a stop for the night. As Tristan moved away into the forest to collect firewood, he pulled her aside.

"The boy's been asking questions about you and about our job," he hissed urgently, "I haven't given him much, and he's bound to ask you soon. Be mindful of what you share." Adaliah agreed and Wynn turned away to tend the horses.

Soon, the three of them sat before a roaring fire, devouring roast salmon caught fresh from the lake. Adaliah was starving - she could not remember the last time she'd eaten meat. Wynn was soon sound asleep, clutching his swollen belly, and she and Tristan cheerfully discussed the day's adventures.

"You terrified me," Tristan admitted, looking embarrassed. "There I was, sound in bed, and suddenly all I could see was Wynn's magic and your blood everywhere." He placed a hand on her back for a moment, as if in comfort, then awkwardly let it drop.

She smiled shyly, feeling a rush of affection for the tall warrior. "It wasn't my best night," she allowed.

Tristan looked troubled. "Wynn won't tell me much, but I need to know... what exactly happened last night? What kind of job did the thief give us, exactly?" He spoke more to the glowing embers than to her.

There was a long pause as Adaliah considered his question, and Wynn's warning. "Brynjolf needs certain information from... a very powerful group of people. That's what Wynn and I were hired to do, and the ... soldiers... who chased me were employed by those people."

"That's basically what he told me," said Tristan in frustration, gesturing towards Wynn. "I usually don't give my sword to causes I don't understand."

Adaliah glared at him, the feelings of warmth vanishing. "You are with us as a guard," she said defensively, "If that's too complicated for you, you're free to leave."

He glared back at her, matching her ire. "Do you really think that I'm the sort of man to walk out on a job?"

"Then take the job or leave it," Adaliah snapped.

"I'll do the first watch," Tristan said coldly, and walked off towards the lake. Unhappy with their exchange, but nonetheless exhausted, Adaliah crawled into her bedroll.

She suffered an uneasy sleep that night. Her dreams took her to strange places, her consciousness dwelling on the Sanctuary, Tristan's angry face, and the grey-clad cultists who chased her, glowing with daedric magic. She fled through her dream forest, all dark shapes and confusion, and suddenly she was with Tristan by the fire again.

He leaned in and whispered into her ear, "I cannot protect your secrets if you do not trust me with them." She protested that she could not possibly share her darkest self with him, that he would turn away, repulsed. But as she tried to explain this his soft mouth came down on hers, parting her lips, and her words were lost. His arms held her as if she were innocent and precious, not a killer, not a murderous assassin, and she found that she was gripping him closer instead of pushing him away.

When Wynn nudged her awake for her watch, dawn was just beginning to creep over the eastern mountains. Her dreams haunted her thoughts, and she could not help but glance over from time to time at Tristan's sleeping form. Was it possible that someone like Tristan, who was kind and good and whole, could care for someone like her, whose life's work was baptized in blood and fear? _No,_ she told herself, _he must never know. He could never understand._

She looked instead to the fading stars overhead, the twin moons in the dimly lit sky, and tried to accept that, but for Wynn, she would always be alone.


	5. Bound Until Death

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brynjolf's demands change and Wynn disapproves. Tristan and Adaliah strike up a surprising friendship.

"So let me get this straight, lass," Brynjolf growled, " _Boethiah_ is responsible for Nocturnal's disappearance? We're involved in some sort of _war_ between the daedra?"

Adaliah nodded, and he exhaled sharply. The two of them sat at a rickety old table in the Ragged Flagon, Brynjolf's favorite haunt. Adaliah was not fond of the bar in the least. Watery daylight filtered in from the grating above, and the sounds of the Riften market could be heard over the _drip-drip-drip_ of the sewers. The whole cavernous space smelled uniquely of ale, lakewater, and decay, and was chillingly humid. Adaliah could not wait to escape. Wynn had taken Tristan with him to barter with some of the loot they'd picked up in their travels - Adaliah suspected that this had more to do with the frostiness between herself and Tristan than with his dislike of Brynjolf, but she could not be sure.

Reuniting with the Thieves' Guild had been, strangely, much more comfortable than meeting her family again. Old Delvin Mallory had eyed her appreciatively as she greeted him, teasing her with suggestive one-liners. Vex, rolling her eyes, had been curt as ever, and Dirge's threatening demeanor hadn't changed at all. The others had said a quick hello, offering her archery or pickpocket lessons which she declined. Tonilia alone had been cold, knowing the relationship she had once had with Brynjolf, who now sat fuming over his ale.

"Well, that's just bloody wonderful," he cursed, "As if we didn't have enough to deal with already… Karliah's worried sick, I've lost more members this year than ever before, and our profits are at an all time low..."

"So what's the next step for us?" Adaliah interrupted.

Brynjolf had his face in his hands and took a moment to answer. "I suppose we'll have to sever the head of the enemy. Doesn't Boethiah have a shrine, somewhere to the north?"

"Probably," she replied with a nod, "But you didn't see her warriors, Brynjolf. They were… I can't explain. Like nothing I've ever seen. I stabbed one through the heart and it didn't even blink."

He pondered that, looking thoughtfully over the pool of stinking water. Finally, he spoke: "Look, lass, I know you're no soldier, but you're not innocent, either. I don't want to ask you to raid the place alone, but I need to know what I'm dealing with."

Her eyes narrowed, "What are you asking me to do?"

Brynjolf looked at her in his calculating way. "I need you to scout Boethiah's Shrine for me. I need to know the numbers, the layout… the usual stuff."

 _Wynn is going to kill me_. "You do realize you’re paying for my services," she said wryly.

He raised a mocking eyebrow. "No favors for old friends, then?"

"Always. But you and I have never really been friends, have we?" She stood to leave, tossing some coin onto the table.

Brynjolf eyed her up and down, grinning mischievously. "We were more than friends, lass. And if I recall, that was one service I didn’t have to pay for." His hand reached out to caress her thigh.

She moved away, cursing at him, and Brynjolf chuckled.

"You and I both need Nocturnal back for our own reasons, lass. Don't get yourself killed."

***

As she predicted, Wynn was not happy about their next job, and he muttered murderously to himself as he roamed Riften. They decided to spend a day in the city, resting and replenishing their supplies, before they set out the next morning. To appease Tristan, Adaliah shared the scouting mission with both of them. Though he seemed to sense that he was still not getting the full story, Tristan was slightly mollified. Wynn hocked the loot they'd accumulated, and grumpily departed for a drink, leaving Adaliah and Tristan to wander the market.

The lukewarm Skyrim sun was high in the sky, and the gentle breeze brought in cool air from the lake. The city was as colourful as it had been five years ago, all bright shops and the vibrant orange of the Autumnal Forest. Despite her history there, Adaliah had always enjoyed Riften. Though cheerful and busy, it had that mysterious undercurrent of alluring darkness.

The merchants smiled and spread wide their arms, but there was a calculating tightness in their smiles. The beggars praised the divines and muttered insults under their breath. And if Adaliah watched the crowd carefully, she could glimpse the workings of the Thieves' Guild: the flash of a dagger as it cut a lady's purse, a whispered message from a Black-Briar servant, a loitering rogue who scanned each passing shopper with a shrewd gaze.

"Why does it feel like I'm being hunted?" Tristan said under his breath as they wandered from stall to sun-bleached stall.

"Because you are," answered Adaliah with a small smile. "Come on, we need to get down to the Canal. Everyone up here just wants to fleece a traveler or two."

They descended a flight of rickety stairs to the shadier level of the city and found Elgrim's Elixirs, the local apothecary. Elgrim roared with joyful recognition as Adaliah walked in. His no-nonsense wife Hafjorg filled their order while her husband chattered absentmindedly. Ingun, the young, pretty apprentice, batted her eyes at Tristan while he browsed the shelves and strangely, Adaliah had to stop herself from glaring.

However, Tristan was not charmed. "What a terrible place for an Alchemy shop," he grumbled as they exited, their packs laden with supplies.

"It's best for his potions to be cold and humid," Adaliah explained, "That's why Elgrim likes to be by the water."

"You certainly know your way around here," Tristan observed.

Adaliah shrugged, remembering their conversation in the Western Watchtower. "I have spent many moons here. But that was a long time ago."

"Is it strange to be back?"

"It's not so bad," she replied awkwardly. It was distinctly weird to be talking about Brynjolf with Tristan.

They walked in silence for a while, enjoying the sun and the cool air. "It's a nice day," he smiled, "What do you want to do?"

Adaliah blinked in surprise. "Oh - I don’t really know. Shouldn’t we find Wynn?"

"I get the feeling he wanted to be left alone for a while." The corners of Tristan's mouth twitched a little as he fought not to laugh.

She thought for a moment. "Do you want to try some Black-Briar mead? We can go straight to the meadery. I know the brewmaster pretty well; I did him a favour a few years ago."

"Sure. You probably do owe me a drink, anyway. I practically carried you here from Falkreath."

"I think your horse was the one that carried me. And you, if I remember correctly."

"Gwenda doesn't mind. And you don't weigh much, either," he laughed, "Honestly, I just want that drink."

Indaryn, the elven brewmaster, remembered Adaliah and welcomed them warmly. He pressed cold bottles into their hands and they sat on barrels, drinking and chatting. Indaryn even offered Tristan a tour of the brewhouse, which he enjoyed as much as any Nord would be expected to - that is to say, immensely. As they stood to leave, Indaryn took Adaliah aside.

"Is this your new man, sweetheart? He's quite… ruggedly handsome. In the Nordic way." The elf appreciatively looked Tristan up and down his long frame. It was common knowledge that Indaryn preferred the company of men.

"Oh no," replied Adaliah quickly, "Just a friend."

"Hmmm," he pondered, "Well, at least you're free of that Brynjolf. He was too shady a character for a sweet thing like you."

Adaliah nearly choked but managed to nod politely, and they thanked Indaryn and set off into the evening. The streets had quietened a little, but there were still merchants and shoppers about. Tristan, who'd drunk more than she, was laughing more than usual, his eyes bright. She even convinced him to sing a few verses of "Ragnar the Red," and found he'd been right - his singing voice could frighten a troll. Adaliah noted with faint surprise that she was having fun.

They were nearing The Bee and Barb when a ragged-looking Nord stepped up to them, waving wildflowers in their faces. "A flower for your little Breton?" he sneered slimily, "Only twenty gold a bud! Might convince her to warm your bed tonight…" He was a nobody; Adaliah could name all the real con-artists in town. She was about to snap at him when Tristan, to her shock, took her hand. His eyes gleamed with humour.

"Why, this little Breton is my wife and, let me tell you, my bed could not possibly be any warmer."

Adaliah laughed out loud to see the embarrassment on the con's face as he fled. Tristan looked quite pleased with himself.

They walked through the inn doors, still chuckling, and caught sight of Wynn, seated at a quiet table. He turned to smile at them and his laugh-lined eyes widened with surprise.

It took Adaliah a moment to realize that she was still holding Tristan's hand.

***

Wynn's mood was much improved, and Adaliah suspected that this had something to do with the near-empty flagon on the table. Together, the adventurers passed a pleasant evening: the two Argonians who owned the inn set a loaves of steaming bread and plate of roast game meat on the wooden table, and before long they found themselves swept away by the familiar warm bluster of Nordic parties.

This evening, the main topic of discussion was a fairly common one: the whereabouts of the infamous Dragonborn.

"He lands us with the damned Imperial dogs and disappears!" Wynn roared, slamming his mug down. There was a general chorus of agreement. Adaliah glanced at Tristan, the Legion soldier, but he did not seem to be offended.

The whereabouts of the Dragonborn, the greatest hero to grace Skyrim since the time of the original Companions, was always a subject of speculation. After siding with the Empire in the Stormcloak Rebellion, and miraculously defeating of Alduin the World-Eater, the Dragonborn had simply vanished, seemingly removed from Tamriel itself.

"I heard that he's half hagraven," Tristan said to Adaliah in an undertone, "With skinny feathery arms and talons."

She'd heard that one before. "Really? I thought half giant, seven feet tall and riding a mammoth."

Tristan was still chuckling when they were approached by a yellow-robed mage with a snooty expression. "Greetings, wanderers," the mage sneered.

"Greetings, mage," replied Adaliah cooly, remembering this character from her time in Riften.

The mage's oily demeanor increased. "I cannot help but wonder if you require additional protection on your journeys. I am Marcurio, available for a range of quests - only 500 gold."

"I think we've got all the protection we need, thanks," said Tristan curtly.

Marcurio leered at him. "I was asking the lady."

"I'm no lady," said Adaliah firmly, fixing him with a challenging gaze.

Still the mage lingered, and Tristan made to stand. Suddenly, Wynn's hand clapped on his shoulder.

"I want an early start," Wynn growled. "We're heading up now."

Reluctantly, Tristan and Adaliah followed, leaving Marcurio standing alone and disappointed.

***

The three of them rode for Eastmarch the next morning.

The forests in the Rift glowed green and gold, and the frost crunched beneath their horses clopping hooves. The air had the earthy, rich scent of decomposing leaves and melting ice. Adaliah breathed deep; she felt calm and alive. The woods were largely quiet. Tristan spotted a large brown bear, but though it reared up on its hind legs, it thankfully let them pass.

Soon, talk turned to their mission.

"We're going to be facing the cultists who nearly got me," Adaliah warned the other two, "Which means we need to be extra careful… they don't seem to be bound by normal human laws."

"How so?" Tristan asked.

It was Wynn who replied. "Well for one thing, the guards who fought them off at the gates had a hard time killing them - though we didn't stick around long enough to see if they'd even managed to defend the town. And if you knew Adaliah at all, you'd know that tracking her through the forest at night is nearly impossible, and a whole pack of these cultists had no trouble with it. It's as if they aren't using their human senses, and are guided by something stronger." His eyes flashed to Adaliah's face. They both knew what drew Boethiah's followers: an allegiance to Nocturnal.

"Boethiah's magic?" Tristan suggested.

Wynn nodded, indulging him. "Could be, boy."

The tree of them rode steadily north through the Rift. Wynn seemed to recall that the Shrine to Boethiah was located in the mountains near Windhelm, but was not wholly certain. Now and then Adaliah caught a lingering stink of sulfur from where the hot springs bubbled around them on the rocky tundra. Geysers erupted from time to time, and giants could be seen tending to their mammoths and paying little attention to the three travelers, for which Adaliah was glad.

"I remember when crossing this area was impossible without being attacked by a dragon," Tristan commented to her. She nodded, remembering - she'd been quite active in Riften at the time.

The journey should have taken them only a few days on horseback, but the road became increasingly difficult with each passing hour. Blizzards rolled in, blinding them with bright, cold snow, and their footsteps were dogged by frost trolls and frostbite spiders. A week passed before they neared Windhelm, and then their travels became downright treacherous: bandit attacks and the draining weather left them bruised and exhausted.

"Candlehearth Hall has the best ale in Skyrim," Wynn told Adaliah, "And warm beds for cold nights like these."

"I've been before," supplied Tristan, "During the Legion's occupation of Windhelm. It's a nice place."

Adaliah could not deny the temptation of a warm, soft bed after the last week of cold and snow, and they made for Windhelm, galloping through the night as quickly as they could. She had only set foot in the ancient city once before, many years ago. As she had then, Adaliah found Windhelm to be bestial and frightening with its black stone walls and howling gales. Thousands of years of history seemed to hiss and whistle through the cracked architecture, and it set Adaliah's teeth on edge.

However, the inn proved to be warm and welcoming. Adaliah and Wynn made their way to the bar on their own as Tristan went upstairs for a nap. A buxom middle-aged barmaid set drinks before them, and Wynn's eyes followed her as she walked away.

Adaliah noticed and grinned. "Oh, go and get her - it's not like you've anything better to do."

Wynn smiled guiltily and peeked at her with a sly expression. "There's nothing I'd rather be doing right now than sharing drinks with an old friend."

She laughed, "Sure, sure, old man…"

Together, they finished a few more drinks, enjoying the warmth and each other's company. A bard struck up a merry tune, and the tavern filled as the evening progressed.

Wynn was getting quite drunk and stood up rather abruptly, swaying. "I’m going to talk to the bar wench now, if you'll excuse me…" Adaliah laughed as he stumbled down the bar, and she returned to her tankard, content in the murmur of voices around her and the Nordic music.

"Need another?"

Tristan sat in Wynn's empty seat, pushing another ale across the counter towards her. She hadn't even noticed him approach.

"Oh, hello," she greeted him and he laughed.

"You're slurring already, Liah. How many drinks have you had?"

She tried to count but could not focus - no one ever called her Liah but Wynn… "I shouldn't have much more. We've got a long way to go tomorrow."

"Last one, then," said Tristan, raising his tankard. She tapped her mug to his. "To… our adventure so far," he toasted.

"Long may it last, " finished Adalaih with a grin. She took only a small sip, conscious that the room around her was starting to wobble.

"Aren't those wedding words?" Tristan remarked.

"Sorry?"

"What you just said: "long may it last"?"

"Are they? I don’t recall." She'd only ever been to one wedding, and it had been an unfortunate affair…

"But then, I've never been married, so what do I know?" he laughed, and she laughed with him.

"Nor have I," she agreed. Now she could hear her own words slurring. _Bed, after this drink_ , she thought.

Tristan looked at her for a long moment. His eyes were so clear, so blue, and she felt embarrassed.

"Why not?" he asked.

"Why not what?"

"Why have you never been married?"

Adaliah blinked at the intimate turn the conversation had taken.

"I told you my story," he reminded her. "And you're what, twenty-five?"

"Twenty-three."

"Oh… twelve years younger than me. You seemed older, for some reason." He frowned thoughtfully.

Adaliah's inebriated mind whirred frantically, and she finally replied, "My circumstances were never quite right for marriage."

"Not right when?"

"Ever." That was as honest as she could possibly be - no man in his right mind would ever marry an assassin.

"Was there anyone you… considered?" He was obviously thinking of Brynjolf.

Adaliah laughed, trying to make light of it. "Not really." She was eager to steer the conversation into safer waters, but Tristan seemed preoccupied. She noticed that the short beard he's grown since their travels began had a reddish gold glow to it, warm in the firelight. Adaliah blushed, suddenly feeling wrong about looking at his face so closely. _Time to go, I think_ …

She drained the last of her ale and pushed the empty mug across the counter, towards the server, reaching across Tristan as she did so -

And she was not sure how it happened, but suddenly Tristan was kissing her, deeply, both hands tangled in her dark hair. It was her dream over again, and whether it was the ale or the warmth or the fire-lit room, she felt herself move closer to him as though her body was outside her control. Her fingers rested on his chest, and she could feel his heat through his linen shirt.

His arms wrapped around her slight frame and pulled her closer still… her veins flooded with fire, the fire usually reserved for combat, for murder, for the flash of a blade and the hot rush of blood…

With a horrified gasp Adaliah pulled herself free and fled the room. She burst through the doors into the snow-blanched night, where she paused, the alcohol slowing her senses, unsure of where to run. Tristan ran after her and his eyes found her, alone in the snow; his expression was equal parts confused and concerned.

"Liah, what -?"

She turned to flee, but Tristan grabbed her wrist.

"If I overstepped, I'm truly sorry - I would never -"

"It's not that," Adaliah cried, wrenching her arm free. She looked around desperately, wishing Wynn were here - her every instinct screamed at her to hide, to melt away into the night, but Tristan's gaze held her still.

He ran his hands over his face in frustration before looking at her pleadingly. Blue eyes, so clear and so sad…

"I don't mean to... attack you when you were drunk, Liah -"

"It's not -"

"Hang on," he spoke over her, "Just give me a chance, here. I haven't felt this way about anyone, not since I almost married Cat all those years ago…"

Adaliah didn't want to hear, to recognize what he was telling her; she didn't want those feelings, from him or from anyone. Her twisted self would only destroy him. With an effort, she made her voice cold and distant. "You don't know me, Tristan. We are practically strangers."

"That may be true, Liah, but it doesn't feel that way to me," he argued with such obvious sincerity that she felt her chest cave in. "These last few weeks, the battles we've fought, we've done all of it together."

She shook her head, ready to argue, but he strove on.

"I know more than you think I do. I know you and Wynn are hiding from someone and that you have been for years, and I know Brynjolf is connected to that somehow. I know that you, little as you are, are more lethal with a dagger than anyone I've ever met, and I can see in your haunted eyes that you - twelve years my junior! - have witnessed horrors that I, who have been to war, cannot even imagine…"

She stood frozen in the snow, her mind reeling with bloody memories. Dozens, hundreds of innocent lives she'd ended, strangers she'd killed for no reason other than that she was ordered to. And she'd revelled in her power, in her god-like influence as she decided who perished and when; and when her enemies looked around to find the murderer in their midst, she'd disappear into the shadows, never reaping the consequences…

Tristan drew closer, and gently bushed her windblown dark hair out of her eyes. His voice drew soft. "Despite all that, you're here with me: brave as a cave-bear, kind, beautiful, and so… contained within yourself. You've enchanted me." A gentle smile tugged at his lips. His body had been so warm and smooth…

She could not bear to disillusion him, to burden him with the heavy truth.

"I can't," she whispered, and pushed past him back into Candlehearth Hall. He did not follow.


	6. The Cure for Madness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tristan, Adaliah and Wynn pursue Boethiah's cultists. Tristan suffers a loss, and Adaliah makes a sacrifice.

Skyrim was beautiful as Adaliah, Wynn and Tristan departed Windhelm the next morning. The howling storm had finally calmed and a blanket of sparkling white lay still upon the mountains. The river glistened, serene in the pale pink of the dawn, and the icy air was fresh and sweet as a glacial spring.

Adaliah was glad of the stunning view, for it distracted her from the painful awkwardness between herself and Tristan. They had exchanged a few clipped, polite words at the inn, but had now fallen into a brittle silence. Tristan was someone Adalaih respected, even liked, and not speaking to him make her uncomfortable - he must think her terribly cruel. Wynn was nursing a throbbing hangover from the night before, and did little more than grumble and rub his tired eyes.

They headed east, and began to climb truly into Skyrim's heights. A smattering of scrawny rabbits left tracks criss-crossing the mountain trails, which were at times completely obscured by the wave-like snowdrifts. Overhead, a hawk circled, seeking its next meal, starving since the storm. The world seemed to be dreaming, and the three passed unnoticed through the pine forest until the sun rose high in the sky.

Sometime after they had stopped to share a loaf of day-old bread, Adaliah felt it: a sudden dread descended on her and panic flooded her veins. She knew this feeling - they were being watched.

Just as she reached out a trembling hand to warm Wynn, an arrow whistled past her head so closely that she felt her hair ruffle. Her horse reared in alarm and Adaliah lost her hold and toppled backwards into the deep snow. She heard the animal flee, overwhelmed by Tristan and Wynn's shouts of warning. As she brushed the snow out of her eyes, she saw their assailants, and her heart skipped a beat: a horde of cultists raced down the mountains, weapons drawn and eyes ablaze with otherworldly power.

She struggled to her feet, her movements hindered by the deep drifts of snow. Tristan, brandishing his silvery blade from atop his horse, gave a mighty battlecry, and Wynn summoned his Destruction magic. Within moments, he'd shattered the peaceful forest and surrounded them in a ring of flame.

"It won’t be enough!" Adaliah cried, knowing their enemy. Sure enough, the cultists burst though the wall of fire with an inhuman disregard for their own lives; they did not seem to notice that their skin was charred and their clothes aflame. Adaliah drew her bow as Tristan charged and Wynn loosed Fireballs at the enemy. A great orc reached Adaliah, brandishing a dark knife. Adaliah reacted instantly, stabbing him through the eye socket with an arrow, then shooting her bow as the orc collapsed.

With magic and with steel they fought against the onslaught of Boethiah's faithful, but though they were consumed with magic or slashed with weapons, the cultists seemed only to fall from a wound to the head.

"There are too many!" shouted Adaliah as she severed the arm of a possessed dark elf. "They're surrounding us!"

Wynn wheeled his horse around, grasped her elbow and pulled her astride. "Retreat, Tristan! We're outnumbered!"

Tristan disengaged his enemy and galloped after them. The deep snow, which so hindered travellers on foot, could not slow down the Skyrim horses and Boethiah's cultists were soon left far behind. However, the panicked steeds did not slow until they had reached the base of the mountain, and the river was in view.

"Is anyone hurt?" Wynn roared, his hangover forgotten.

Adaliah flexed each limb, then wiggled her fingers and toes. "I'm fine."

"I'm alright too," said Tristan, but as he dismounted his horse, he gave a shout of alarm. "Gwenda!"

In their flight they had not noticed that four arrows protruded from the horse's middle, blood pouring down her smooth pelt. The animal staggered.

"Can you heal her?" Tristan demanded of Wynn, who rapidly summoned his Healing magic. However, after just a moment of casting, the magic spluttered out.

"I can’t, Tristan," growled Wynn in despair, "The battle has used by Magika!"

Tristan pressed his hands to Gwenda's wounds, slowing the flow of blood but causing her to scream in agony. "It's alright, girl - I got you -", frantically he turned to Adaliah. "A healing potion?"

"I'm out!" she gasped.

The horse kneeled, then toppled onto her side as the pain overtook her strength. Tristan sunk down beside her head, stroking her head and mane in comfort and murmuring softly. Adaliah noticed his hands shaking, and her heart ached. Sensitive as he always was to her thoughts and feelings, Wynn placed a hand on her shoulder.

Slowly, Gwenda's agonized thrashing turned into jerky twitches.

"You need to end it, Tristan," Wynn said gruffly.

He wiped his eyes. "Yes," he replied huskily, "Of course." His hand went to his blade, then stopped as if frozen.

"I can do it," Adaliah heard herself say, and Wynn turned to her, surprised.

Tristan's expression was unfathomable - she half expected him to fight her - but then he nodded slowly and retreated to the river. Wynn watched him silently for a moment, then followed.

Adaliah approached the dying animal, who had borne Tristan so many leagues and served him so well. She drew a long dagger from her cloak. Here she was again: blessed of Nocturnal, agent of Sithis, bringer of death! But for the first time, this act was not driven by hatred or fear or the Brotherhood…

With a smooth, sure motion Adaliah plunged the weapon into Gwenda's throat. The horse gave on last scream, which broke off in a gurgle, and was still. She cleaned her dagger on the fresh snow, leaving streaks of red.

Wynn had busied himself with building a fire, and Tristan sat alone by the dark water. Adaliah went to him, and crouched down by his side. He looked wretched and lost.

"It's done," she told him gently.

He nodded, blinking rapidly. His eyes stared across the river, seeing nothing.

As she began to rise, he spoke. "She bore me through Ulfric's war. Kept me safe when a hundred times over I thought I would die."

"It's not your fault," Adaliah whispered, but he seemed not to hear.

"She was gentle, and loyal, and brave. She saved me again today, I'm sure. And I couldn't save her. I failed - I - I allowed this to happen."

Tristan's smooth head fell into his hands and he shook as the tears froze in his red-gold beard. Without thinking, Adaliah put her arms around his shoulders and leaned into his body. "It's not your fault," she murmured again, and this time he heard her.

***

They made camp by the river that night. Tristan had finally fallen into a troubled sleep, the corners of his thin mouth pulled down. Adaliah and Wynn stared thoughtfully into the fire.

"Are you going to tell him?" Wynn asked her quietly.

"Tell him what?"

"How you feel."

Adaliah glared at him. His smile was not mischievous, but understanding and kind. "I don't know what you mean," she said flatly.

Wynn gave a coughing laugh. "I knew you were stubborn as a mule, girl, but I never took you for a fool."

"I'm an assassin, Wynn," she whispered.

" You _were_ an assassin," he corrected wisely, "You've changed. You killed his horse today, Liah, out of kindness and mercy. No assassin feels these things."

"The things I've done - "

"You think he hasn't killed? He's a soldier, he went to war. He's probably killed dozens, maybe hundreds - and some his Nord brothers and sisters!"

Adaliah thought for a moment. "He went to war honourably. To protect his homeland, and things he valued. For his family."

Wynn snorted. "There is no honour in war. And you, Liah, did not ask for the hand the gods dealt you. You were a girl, an orphan, in terrible distress; more a victim than anything. Don't interrupt, girl - I know you don’t see it that way. But if a scared, hungry child is offered a chance at life in this cold world, is she really to blame for taking it?"

Glancing at Tristan's gentle, sleeping face, she shook her head. "But he could never understand."

"Maybe not. But I've seen how he looks at you. Maybe you should let him make that decision for himself," Wynn replied wisely.

Feeling like she could not bear to hear another word, Adaliah threw a handful of wet snow at him and he spluttered indignantly. "Time for bed, old man. I'll take the first watch."

***

The sun was high in the cloudy sky the next morning, and though the wind was quiet, the air was bitingly cold. Tearing into some stale hunks of bread and salted venison, Adalaih, Wynn and Tristan discussed their next move.

"If only we knew how they found us so quickly," said Tristan in frustration. His eyes were sunken in grief, but there was a vengeful steel in his voice.

Wynn glared at Adaliah, silently urging her to speak. She took a deep breath, and braced her heart for the impact.

"We do," she said quietly, "They're drawn to people who have been blessed by a daedric prince."

"That doesn't explain - "

"Listen, boy," interjected Wynn sharply. "Go on, Liah." She nodded, and continued.

"The cultists are drawn to me, Tristan, because I have been blessed by a daedra. This blessing has protected me for years. The cult of Boethiah can feel that power, and they seem to be able to trace it somehow - as if they're using a sense we don't have."

He was listening closely now, his face alight with interest. "Is this why you've been in hiding?"

"It's related, I suppose," she replied evasively. She tried to keep her face impassive, but a ray of joy erupted inside her: Tristan was not afraid, he was not disgusted! What else might he accept? "The point is that we know how they're able to track us, and we need to use this to our advantage."

Wynn spoke up, "We were foolish to try and raid them as we would a normal adversary. And it will be much harder now, with only one horse between the three of us."

"Keep in mind that this is a scouting mission," said Adaliah, "Brynjolf only wants information on numbers and locations. We aren't getting paid to wipe them out."

They puzzled for a moment before Tristan broke the silence.

"If you’re the only one they can track, Liah, then I might have an idea. But it's risky, and I'm not sure you'll like it."

Wynn eyed the Nord carefully and gave a great sigh. "Alright, boy. Let's hear this plan of yours."


	7. Breaching Security

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tristan gathers information, and a mysterious truth is revealed.

Adaliah, Wynn and Tristan started up the mountain for the second time. The trek was much more difficult; the path was steep and treacherous, and they climbed on foot. They did not burden Wynn's horse with weight - she would need her strength before their mission was over. The day wore on and sweat began to drip down between Adaliah's shoulders. The journey became exhausting, mentally and physically, for every snapping twig or breath of wind could be the approaching enemy.

Finally, Wynn called a halt.

"Right, this is about where they got us last time, so let's get ready. Tristan, these are for you -" he handed Tristan several tall, ivory bottles - "and they're very powerful, so don't waste them. They are philters of invisibility, and Adaliah used the last of our nirnroot brewing them for you."

Tristan nodded and pocketed the bottles, and Wynn climbed up into the saddle. Adalaih readied her bow, and the three climbed on, taking care to muffle their cautious footsteps.

"So, I can't touch anything while using these potions, is that right?" Tristan asked her.

Adaliah nodded, eyes scanning the forest. "Yes, or the spell will break and you'll be seen. Don't attack anyone unless you have to - and don't let them touch you, either."

Suddenly, there was a rustling sound from the forest ahead. Tristan quickly sipped a potion and vanished from sight. Wynn and Adaliah held their breath.

A group of four or five cultists staggered onto the road ahead. They did not seem aggressive, but moved like wolves on the scent. The smallest one, a female Altmer, turned then and caught sight of Adaliah. Letting out a furious cry, the cultist charged and her bellowing companions charged with her.

"Go, Tristan!" Adaliah hissed, and she felt a rush of air and an invisible figure moved past her. Knocking multiple arrows, she shot the two closest cultists through the head as Wynn blasted them with Destruction.

"These aren't all of them, Liah," Wynn shouted urgently, "We must draw out the rest!"

He held out his hand and with a great leap, Adaliah pulled herself into the saddle. Wynn pulled back on the reins sharply and Adaliah held tight to the horse's neck while clutching her bow with one hand. Wynn's horse reared up and charged at the cultists, breaking through them with a great leap.

"Take the reins!" Wynn roared, and Adaliah seized them and urged the horse off the path, towards where they'd first seen the cultists.

Arrows flew towards them, whistling dangerously. Wynn, his hands rippling with Restoration, raised wards around them and the missiles fell away harmlessly.

"Ahead!" Adaliah cried as ten or so more cultists staggered into the clearing.

"That's more like it!" cackled Wynn, "Let's take them down the mountain!"

Adaliah kicked her heels and the horse charged into a gallop, leaning sharply down through the pines. She heard Wynn muttering as he threw up more wards, deflecting fireballs that exploded in midair and coloured with snow with a burning orange. They half-fell down the snowy cliffs as their pursuers thundered behind.

"There!" Wynn cried.

Through an opening in the dense trees, Adaliah could see the deadly dropoff, the empty cold air over the jagged cliff. "Now Wynn!"

She felt his body tense as he began the complicated spell. Adaliah heaved backwards on the reins driving the horse sharply to the left, away from the cliff. As the cultists turned to follow, Wynn unleashed his magic: a master spell of mass paralysis. Their stiff bodies, thrown by their own momentum, tumbled off the mountain like lemmings. Adaliah laughed in triumph.

"Careful," Wynn warned, grinning, "The fall won't kill them."

She smiled back, and patted the horse's neck. "Good girl," she whispered, and together they cantered back to find Tristan.

***

"It was awful. A complete monstrosity - one of the worst places I've ever been," sighed Tristan after he'd recovered his breath. They were camped in the mountains a ways south of Windhelm, Tristan having met them on the road.

"Burned corpses," Tristan continued, "bodies on stakes -"

"Spare us the gory details, please," growled Wynn.

Adaliah nodded. The only things they needed to know were the numbers and the layout, as Brynjolf had asked.

Picking up a sharp piece of kindling, Tristan began to draw the shrine in the frozen earth.

"You climb the narrow stairs here, and there's this initial flat bit. Nothing special, just racks of weaponry and whatnot. Then you climb this second flight here," he gestured with his stick, "And it leads you to the altar - that's where all the bodies were."

"Daedra worshippers," Wynn scoffed, "With all their altars and their corpses."

Tristan did not smile. "There were some chests here and there, but near the altar was this huge ebony pillar, right in the middle. It's pitch black and surrounded with what looked like destruction runes, so of course I didn’t get too close."

"Some sort of ritual?" Wynn mused.

"What about the cultists?" Adaliah asked.

"Oddly, only seven inside the shrine. But these weren't the zombies the others were: they talked and worked and their eyes seemed okay. They seemed normal - if you could ever call members of a blood-crazed daedric cult 'normal'."

Adaliah gave a hollow laugh, but Wynn made an impatient gesture.

"Who was in charge, boy?"

"There was one female Dunmer who seemed to be some sort of priestess. She was giving orders and they were being followed."

Adaliah felt hugely relieved: they had their information. Now, Brynjolf could deal with the rest. "I'm glad this is over."

"There's one more thing," said Tristan, looking troubled. "There was a man, a huge dark warrior. He stood above the others, on the statue, looking down at them."

"Okay, one more cultist," shrugged Wynn.

"He wasn't a cultist," Tristan spoke slowly, "I'm sure of it. I felt like he knew I was there, even if I was invisible. And it was bizarre, but I felt like I'd seen him before."

"Perhaps he's a high priest?" Adaliah suggested.

Wynn snorted, "It doesn’t matter - it's not our job to kill him. We've done our part; we'll leave him for Brynjolf, rat-master of Riften."

***

"Liah?" Tristan whispered in her ear. She was warm and comfortable, her mind filled with images of mountains and the warm forests of the Rift. His sweet voice rippled quietly in her mind, part of the dream itself. She felt a warm touch on her face and leaned into it with a smile. The touch was an exquisite pleasure, and she shivered to her core. Her eyes fluttered sleepily.

Tristan leaned over her. His face was shadowed in the fire's dying glow, but Adaliah thought she saw a wry sparkle in his blue eyes. Still in her dream, she brushed her hand over the golden bristles on his face.

She heard him growl deep in his throat and his body, muscular as a mountain lion, pressed her back against the bedroll. Tristan's mouth sought hers and he kissed her warmly. Soft and vulnerable with sleep, she pulled him closer and snaked her legs around his waist.

He gave a quiet laugh. "I think I'll wake you for your watch more often," he growled.

Adaliah's eyes shot open fully and she woke with a gasp. "Tristan," she whispered breathlessly, flushing deeply, "I - I was dreaming!"

"And I was just going to sleep. Won't you join me?" he said, smiling into her neck.

"I didn't mean to…"

Tristan rolled off her with a deep sigh, staring up at the stars. Adaliah sat up and began to gather her things.

"Why do you pull away from me, Liah?" Tristan asked, his gaze seeking hers. "Don’t you feel what I feel? What there is between us?"

She turned her back on him. "I am not good for you, Tristan."

"Why?" he whispered, "Because you've been blessed by a daedra? Because you've had dealings with the Thieves' Guild? I don't care about any of that."

If only those were the only crimes for which she must feel ashamed! Adaliah made to stand, but Tristan took hold of her wrist. She met his intense blue gaze for a long moment before he let her go. His eyes followed her as she walked away into the night.

***

Adaliah walked around their camp several times, making a larger radius with every round. The forest was quiet, almost eerily so, and Adaliah felt uncomfortable. Darkness, to her, was like a second skin. So why did she feel as if the mountain watched her every move? Silently, she turned back towards camp.

Her heart nearly stopped as she glimpsed the trail ahead. Nearly ten yards away stood a large armoured warrior, blocking her path.

She hadn't seen him, she hadn't heard him. No one had ever found her in the dark before. Yet this dark warrior stood before her fearlessly and she could not help but shrink away. This, she instinctively knew, was someone of whom she should be very much afraid.

The enormous two-handed sword at his back was daedric in make, and looked to be as long as she. His ebony armour gleamed, beautifully impenetrable, casting his face in such shadow that she couldn’t make out his features. The assassin inside her was screaming at her to run but she found herself held by a morbid curiosity.

"Peace, envoy of Nocturnal," the dark warrior spoke, his deep voice ringing with ancient power. He reached up and removed his helm, revealing himself to be a battle-hardened Nord. His dark blonde hair, knotted with braids, tumbled around his face which was coarse with dark stubble. His features were sharp and broad and, though his visage gave away no emotion, reminded her of a prowling cave-bear. And what Adaliah noted most of all were his eyes - astonishingly green, and without a trace of Boethiah's ethereal glow. She suppressed a sigh of relief.

"What message does Nocturnal have for me?" he asked.

Making an effort to relax her stance, Adalaih replied calmly, "I am no envoy, Dark Warrior."

She met his gaze for a moment, heart pounding. The warrior cocked his head. "But you have been blessed by the Lady of the Night."

"Yes."

"You you are not here to do her bidding?"

"No."

"Then why are you here, young assassin?"

She paused, shivers erupting across her skin. "I am no assassin, and my business is my own - I mean you no harm."

"Hmm," the man rumbled, eyeing her closely, "We shall see if you are lying, Blessed of Nocturnal. I choose to believe you - for now."

How could he sense her blessing? And how did he know about her past? "How does one sense such blessings?" she asked as calmly as she could.

He grinned wolfishly, showing battered teeth. "The same way one senses lies. And like you, my life has been shaped by the daedra… Daedra and gods."

Fear, cold and biting, crept up Adaliah's limbs. Softly, she stepped backwards, but the warrior watched with the eyes of a snake.

"Do not run, assassin. It will be much harder for you."

She bared her teeth in rage - no one, not even a daedra or a god, could catch her when she chose to disappear! Summoning her alteration magic, she cast a spell of invisibility, and turned back through the white forest.

She'd made no more than ten yards when she heard the powerful voice bellowing behind her. The voice trembled with power, raged with it, and it's might shook her to her core. The world spun and she found herself flying, limp as a ragdoll, until she hit the ground and crumpled in the snow.

Wincing, Adaliah struggled upright but a powerful boot on her chest forced her back down. The dark warrior's eyes glinted dangerously as he drew his massive sword and put the point to her throat.

"You little fool," he growled. "I warned you - Nocturnal has no power in Skyrim anymore."

The sword tip grazed her chin. "Who are you?" she gasped.

The warrior's eyes gleamed and she knew he had been waiting for the question. He threw back his head and gave a hair-raising, maniacal laugh. "You will not know my name, as the world knows me as something greater: a walking legend, wielder of the Thu'um, pride of the Nine! Every child in Skyrim knows my story!"

Adaliah's heart filled with a sickly dread as she began to realize…

"I saved this land from Ulfric's rebellion!" he roared, "I've brought the Thalmor to their pathetic knees! I laid low Alduin the World-Eater, and saved countless souls in Sovengarde from an eternity in Oblivion! I am Dovahkiin, the Last Dragonborn, the saviour of Skyrim and the Champion of Boethiah!"

As the blade pressed harder into Adaliah's throat, a gaseous dark substance began to excrete from the Dragonborn's ebony mail. Everything felt suddenly very far away, and the world fell silent. A crazed light shone in his face and the darkness pulled her under.


	8. The Silence Has Been Broken

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Adaliah dreams, and Dovahkiin makes an offer.

For a long time Adaliah drifted in the dark. And while she drifted, she experienced dreams that were not true dreams, but visions and memories from a life long past: her old life.

She saw black and crimson shadows, heard the dying gasps of victim after victim; she crept, struck and fled a hundred times over. Her life relived was a bloody cycle of death and punishment with only the occasional distraction: her gold, piling up after each kill, the plentiful wine, the encounters with men whose faces she never even noticed.

Brynjolf had recognized her bloodlust and avaricious hunger for power and drawn her in, used her talents for his guild and used her body for himself. As the visions from her past flickered through her tangled mind, Adaliah recognized again the lust and passion and greed that lingered between them. She saw once again her frenzy of rage and betrayal, the foolish drunken night that had led to her arrest.

This memory stood out to her in perfect clarity; it was not blurred as the others were. Adaliah had never been arrested before, as she'd never been caught. In her anger she'd lost control and assaulted a red-haired bard in the Bannered Mare and apparently pulled a knife. Thankfully she'd been too inebriated to use it properly, but it had taken a half dozen burly men to subdue her.

When her senses returned to her, Adaliah had loitered carelessly in her desolate cell. She had not been overly concerned about her imprisonment - Astrid would break her out- but she felt lifeless. For the first time, Adaliah had stopped caring about survival; her anger dragged her away from her usual cold detachment and into hopelessness.

After a few nights in the cell, another man was thrown in. He was a thin, mangy-looking old Nord, and Adaliah could smell the ale on him from across the chamber. She'd assumed that he was just another roistering drunk. The man slept that night and all of the next day before he woke blearily. She could see him stirring in the cell next to hers.

Finally, he'd managed to sit up, and spotted her though the bars.

"And just who the hell are you?" he growled by way of introduction.

She gave a fake name, of course. No assassin wanted to be known for being imprisoned.

"What are you in for?"

"Murder," she'd answered, though of course it wasn't true. She'd simply wanted to scare him.

It had worked - he was shocked out of his snarly mood. "Are you guilty?"

She'd bared her teeth in a feral grin. "Not of this one."

Wynn did not speak to her for a few hours, though she'd supposed he might just have been getting used to the idea of being locked up. But that night, the stories had started. In hindsight, Adaliah thought that he'd simply been so lonely since the death of his wife that he was secretly glad of someone to talk to. Wynn had told stories of his entire life: his childhood, his wayward adolescence, his marriage and his time with the Stormcloaks. He'd spoken frequently about his wife and daughter, and as the weeks passed, even revealed how they died.

At first, Adaliah was annoyed. She'd always preferred solitude, and at times even the company of her Brotherhood family was hard to bear. But at some point, she'd done the very thing that Astrid had trained her not to do: listen. From Wynn, Adaliah heard for the first time of a childhood in a loving home, not cold on the streets; of training to fulfill a purpose in life and not scavenging for survival; of marriage and children for love and not an unfortunate result of a drunken evening. And the more Adaliah had listened, the more she'd begun to change. She'd never been trusted by anyone before, and here was a complete stranger, pouring out his heart to her in a dungeon.

Eventually, Wynn had run dry of stories and begun to ask Adaliah questions about her life. She'd evaded them as best she could, giving vague and airy replies. But Wynn was both persistent and devilishly clever, and soon he'd pieced enough together to make a guess.

"Are you an assassin, girl?" he'd whispered one night through the bars.

Adaliah had never been so shocked. "Yes," she breathed, too stunned to tell anything but the truth.

Most surprising of all had been Wynn's response. Adaliah had expected fear, disgust, anger. But Wynn's eyes were filled with pity, and Adaliah was shaken.

"For how long?" he'd asked.

"Since I was thirteen," she'd replied, honest again.

Wynn had looked at her for a long moment. "You poor, abused child," he'd sighed, "You haven't truly lived, have you?"

Adaliah had snarled at him and retreated into a corner. But his words had stayed with her; they gnawed at the fragile identity she'd constructed for herself and shattered her understanding of the world. And little by little, Adaliah had revealed everything.

She'd told him how she killed, and why. She'd told him about living as an orphan on the streets, stealing and begging, until she'd become a killer. They'd spoken about her induction into the Brotherhood, her training, her bloody career. She even told him about her affair with Brynjolf. Through it all, Wynn had looked at her with compassion and wisdom.

One day, after weeks of imprisonment, Wynn had asked the key question.

"Is the Brotherhood coming for you?"

"Yes," Adaliah replied, "Any day now."

Wynn's eyes narrowed and he spoke passionately. "Then you have a choice, girl. You can go along with your gang of assassins and carry on living your dark corrupt life until it consumes you. Or you can break free, and start your life over."

Adaliah had not known how to answer, but she was no fool. She knew since Brynjolf had betrayed her something in herself had broken that could not be repaired. She felt a shift in her world, or perhaps, in her perception of it. But she knew no other way to live…

Wynn was not finished. He'd offered her a job; mercenary work. Without thinking, Adaliah accepted. The next day, Wynn used Alteration magic to pull the keys off a nearby guard and they made their escape easily. He probably could have done it weeks before.

Adaliah stepped into the cool winter air a changed woman. For five years, she did not look back.

***

When Adaliah's senses returned to her, she noticed only the pain and a feeling of terrible restraint. Her hands and feet had been bound by ropes, and a thick metal chain pinned her back against something hard and cold. She squinted against the white snow light, grimacing from the pounding in her head. Around her was what seemed to be a Daedric place of worship - she could only assume the shrine to Boethiah - and grey-cloaked cultists milled about, the sun high in the hazy grey sky. Finally, her eyes fell on the Ebony warrior, the Dragonborn, seated before her. He seemed relaxed, sitting cross-legged on the ground, cleaning his great blade.

"You survived, assassin," he spoke in his deep, ringing voice. "That is good. Boethiah will be pleased."

As she tried to speak, Adaliah coughed and spat on the ground in front of her. Her saliva was tinged with red. "Why am I alive?" she rasped, "Why have you brought me here?"

Dovahkiin smiled wolfishly. "I would take pride in killing an assassin of the Dark Brotherhood, it's true. But I do not serve myself. What is your name, assassin?"

"Flora," Adaliah replied spitefully.

The Dragonborn laughed. "Lies. I asked you your name." He stretched out his sword and pressed the tip, with rising pressure, against the soft skin behind her knee.

Pain laced up Adaliah's leg and she quickly gasped her true name. Dovahkiin drove the point into her flesh for another moment before he removed it.

"I have kept you alive, Adaliah, because I am about to make you an offer on behalf of my master, the Lord of Treachery. She has need of your… particular talents."

"There are many assassins in Skyrim," Adaliah replied coldly, "Why ask me? The Brotherhood is available for hire".

The great warrior snorted scornfully. "The Brotherhood? They are a ghost of what they once were. They cower in their Santuary; we have all but driven them from Skyrim. But you, assassin, have succeeded in hiding from them for a long time. You avoided the most stealthy warriors in the north. It is you who is blessed by Nocturnal, my master's enemy. And it is you that Boethiah has been watching."

Adaliah was overwhelmed. She'd never been afraid of daedra, always taking comfort from knowing she was too small to attract any notice. To think that she might be of importance to the daedric princes was a frightening thought.

"Yes, I was surprised also," the Dragonborn mused, reading the shock in her face, "I offered to kill you the moment that my master mentioned your name. But the Lord of Treachery sees another path, should you choose to take it."

"You think I would take employment from a daedric prince?" Adaliah drew herself up, "I have not served the Brotherhood for five years. And I would never have taken a contract from a Daedra in any case. We assassins know how those encounters end: with the death of every mortal involved."

"Oh no, you misunderstand," he replied lazily, "I am not here to offer a contract, or any kind of short-term employment." Adaliah watched him closely as his face lit up, and he leaned in towards her.

"I could offer you…everything. There is such _power_ in Skyrim, great veins of it tapped only by the worthy; power beyond anything I imagined was possible, and my imagination is… vivid."

Adaliah opened her mouth in a snarl, but Dovahkiin cut her off. "Think, assassin! Enough raw strength to annihilate those who could control you. You could inspire awe, and free yourself forever from your burdens. Freedom, assassin, think of that! Living without fear is an unimaginable gift."

Despite her cold and despite her anger, Adaliah felt a tug of temptation. To live without fear, to life in Skyrim freely without the need to flee and hide! She could buy a house in Whiterun. She could allow Tristan into her life…

"Why would you offer this to me?" she said hoarsely.

The Dragonborn's sharp green eyes were feverish with passion. "Because Boethiah is my master, and I am her champion. She commanded me to build her an army, and so I did: a mindless army of daedric thralls. I need a deputy worthy enough to do her bidding, a warrior beyond a possessed shell; an agent of death to fulfill my master's wishes."

Eyes narrowed with scorn, Adaliah spat, "So you offer me freedom only to control me yourself?"

"Not I, assassin. You would serve Boethiah. Her will would fill you, drive you; you would be the weapon that hangs over Skyrim's head." The Dragonborn paused. "Nocturnal blessed you with impossible abilities. But she has been driven from Skyrim - powerless wretch. By joining Boethiah, you would sacrifice nothing… only gain, without limit. "

Power without limit? There was a time when Adaliah would have jumped at the offer; she would have revelled in the thought of gold and glory, and winning the dance of death at which she so excelled. But she suddenly thought of Tristan, his clear blue gaze and smooth lean body, the golden red softness of his bearded face…

"I have no interest in such an offer," said Adaliah coldly.

The Dragonborn's face darkened. He sat back as if he were not much surprised. "I am sorry to hear it. Well, no - I am sorry that my master will lose a valuable servant. I will relish killing you, here on the Pillar of Sacrifice."

He drew a dark, ebony blade from within his boot and rose to his full, monstrous height. "Goodbye, young assassin," he said.


	9. Death Incarnate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Adaliah stands at the brink of death and the shrine is attacked.

A sudden explosion shook the snow covered ground behind the Pillar. The Dragonborn started, "What in the name of the Eight- "

Two grey-clad cultists rushed up to him. Their clothes were singed. "My lord," they gasped, "There's a renegade battle mage, an old Nord. He's attacking the shrine!"

Adaliah's eyes widened. Had Wynn come for her?

"Well, fight him off, you fools, there's only one of him!" Dovahkiin roared.

"We can't get close, my lord - "

With a grunt of frustration, the Dragonborn rushed past the pillar, wielding his two-handed blade. The cultists followed closely behind.

"No!" Adaliah cried in panic, struggling against her bonds.

"Shhh!" hissed a familiar voice in her ear.

Her heart jumped wildly: there was no one there! Then, she noticed the faintest of footprints beside her in the snow, and the glimmer of an invisible figure.

"Tristan?" she whispered.

"I'm here, Liah," said the soft voice. He set to work breaking the thick black chain, becoming visible as she did so.

"Tristan!" She could have wept with relief. "You were right, the dark warrior you saw is Boethiah's Champion, he's the one controlling the cultists -"

"It doesn't matter right now -"

"But he's gone to fight Wynn! We have to save him!"

"Wynn can hold his own," Tristan grunted, struggling with a final moment with the chain before it snapped. "There, now just the ropes -"

"No, Tristan, he's the Dragonborn! He has the power of the Thu'um!"

Tristan froze for a moment, his blue eyes wide. "The Dragonborn?" he said in a whisper, "The Dragonborn is Boethiah's Champion?"

She shook off the last of the rope and rose unsteadily to her feet, wincing as the blood flowed through her sore limbs. "Yes, and he found me in the forest. We have to help Wynn!"

Tristan took her by the shoulders and looked into her face. "Listen, Liah," he said urgently, "Wynn has the power of Alteration. You and I need to get to his horse nearby and distract the cultists, and when the moment is right, he will cast his spell and slip away."

"He might be dead by then! " she cried, but Tristan shook his head.

"He's bottlenecked them in the camp entrance. If we want to save him, we have to go now!"

Adaliah nodded. In his arrogance, the Dragonborn had not taken away her blades, and her ebony bow rested nearby. She grabbed them and followed Tristan as he ran over the stone edges of the shine and into the sparse mountain woods. Adaliah followed as fast as she could, but found that she was limping. She'd not noticed before, but her right calf was soaked with fresh blood from the Dragonborn's cut.

Finally, they came to Wynn's horse. Tristan went to climb astride him, then stopped suddenly. He turned and in a quick motion, crushed Adaliah to him, holding her to his chest.

"In case I don't get another chance," he said roughly into her hair, then turned and climbed into the saddle. Adaliah followed him, her heart hammering for more reasons than one, and summoned her Illusion magic.

"I'll drive them into a Frenzy," she said, wrapping one arm around Tristan's waist, "You run them down." Tristan cracked the reins and the horse surged forward, back towards the shrine. He cleared the stone hedges in a single bound, and galloped past the Pillar of Sacrifice and down the stone steps. Adaliah summoned her Illusion magic and cast her spell; several cultists rushed towards them and they were crushed beneath the animal's thundering hooves.

Suddenly, to their left, and explosion of flame! Wynn, eyes burning, cloak flapping around him in the midst of a storm of fire, stood like a god on a snowy ridge. He rained fire down onto the earth and the shrine burned, the blaze growing by the second. The Dragonborn walked towards him with murderous purpose.

Adaliah knocked an arrow and let it fly; it glanced off the ebony warrior's thick armour and he spun in rage.

"Go!" she yelled to Wynn, and she saw him raise his wards and retreat down the mountain. Adaliah leapt from the horse onto the stone steps and Tristan charged into battle with a great war cry. She covered him as he fought, raining deadly arrows on the cultists who approached his unguarded flank as he felled foe after foe with mighty swings of his sword. But they were outnumbered ten to one and the cultists were closing in.

"Time to go!"Tristan shouted, making one last ferocious strike that nearly cut a possessed Altmer in two. They retreated, blades flashing, fighting off the horde, until Adaliah made a sudden, horrifying realization.

The Dragonborn was not among them.

"Wynn!" Adaliah screamed in terror. Her eyes scanned the crowd in panic.

"We have to retreat, Liah!" Tristan yelled, "Wynn will be - ".

But Adaliah did not listen. With one hand she put her dagger through the eye of the closest assailant, blood squirting down her arm, and with the other she cast a spell of Calm. The cultists, stopped in their tracks, dazed and befuddled, and Adaliah stole off down the mountain.

She heard Tristan's voice but she left him behind. The sparse forest was aflame and Adaliah held her cloak to her face to breathe. Even with his extraordinary Destruction magic, Wynn was no match for the Dragonborn; no mortal was. She traced their footsteps through the deep snow, marked with the occasional smattering of blood.

There they were! On the winding path, Wynn fought the Dragonborn, only that low stone wall standing between him and the burning forest below. He'd never battled anyone so fiercely: his hands were a blur as they threw up wards and fireballs, and his blade was never idle. But the Dragonborn had powers no man would hope to match. His green eyes seemed to glow with power and bloodlust. Where Wynn's blade struck, the Dragonborn blocked; where his fireballs exploded, he raised wards of his own.

The battle was treacherous and Adaliah was unsure of how to get close. She drew her bow and aimed an arrow, but did not loose it for fear of striking Wynn as he blocked and twirled. But she had to help Wynn, for though he was a brilliant battlemage, he was over sixty years old and he was slowing.

The Dragonborn sensed Wynn's weakness and his attacked increased in intensity. Gritting his teeth, Wynn was driven back down the winding path. Adaliah leapt forward - the Dragonborn's flank was exposed. She sprinted forwards, drawing her daggers to cut his throat, but at the last moment she saw his chest heave and he gave a great shout.

Adaliah blinked. The Dragonborn's outline became blurred and ghostly. With an awful chill, she ran _through_ him, stumbling to slow down.

"Liah!" Wynn roared. He seized her and threw her to the snowy ground. She heard the deadly whistling of a blade through thin air where she had been a moment before, and then something much worse: the grinding screech of metal on metal and flesh.

Her heart froze. She twisted around.

Above her stood Wynn, who seemed to be trembling. He looked down at the scarlet stain spreading rapidly across his chest.

"WYNN!" she screamed, scrambling to her feet.

Wynn bared his teeth, he raised his sword and lurched forward unsteadily towards his enemy. The Dragonborn sidestepped his attack easily and pushed him to the ground. His sword flew from his slackening grip.

There Wynn fell, on the snow-covered path, and moved no more.


	10. Hail Sithis!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The assassin emerges from her slumber. Adaliah makes a powerful enemy.

Adaliah's vision flickered as she was overcome with rage unlike any she could remember. She wanted to break the Dovahkiin, splinter his limbs into pieces, she wanted to take her knives to his face until he begged for mercy. The gaping hole in her chest craved his blood, screamed for it; she would not kill him until he has endured every pain she knew to afflict. But Wynn - Wynn lay there and was not moving.

Her enemy stood before her, arrogant and careless. His hand rested on the pommel of his two-handed blade. He seemed utterly relaxed, as if Skyrim's most notorious assassin was not standing before him, shaking with suppressed violence. _Patience, little one_ , she imagined Wynn's gravelly voice in her ear. She would never hear that voice again; he could never again offer her counsel when she needed it most…

The Dragonborn smiled at her, an awful leering grin, and said tauntingly, "You should have accepted my offer, assassin. Now look what you've done!"

Without thinking, without the slightest conscious thought, Adaliah leapt at him like a sabre cat. His smirk disappeared; she moved so fast with such deadly accuracy that not even the Dragonborn could draw his sword in time. Her knives slashed every part of him she could reach, her legs clung to him like a spider as she tore through his ebony mail again and again. Dimly, she heard his black roar of rage and, quieter still, Tristan's voice, very far away.

The ebony mail, the armour of Boethiah's chosen, began again to ooze the gaseous black substance that had knocked her out once before. She felt her grip loosen, and the Dragonborn swatted her off like an angry cave bear. She landed heavily on her back, winded, but cleared of the poison's dark influence.

"You stupid little bitch," he snarled, walking slowly towards her, sword in hard. "I will annihilate you."

With a surge of adrenaline, Adaliah clamoured to her feet, crouched and ready. The Dragonborn's face was cut and bleeding, his green eyes glowing against the bloody red of his skin. His armour was damp from a shallow wound on his neck, but his teeth were bared in rage.

Smoothly, Adaliah drew her bow and fired one, two, three arrows at his chest. He deflected them with his armoured forearm. She should have felt fear as the world's greatest hunter, the killer of Alduin himself, stalked towards her with murder in his eyes, but she felt only a cold clarity and grim sense of purpose. The assassin had awoken inside her. Hatred was easier than love; taking revenge easier than confronting her grief.

Finally her enemy lunged. He might as well have been sleepwalking for all the hope he had of catching Adaliah. She spun away, and slashed at his leg. She caught his thigh with an upward strike before dancing away again. She was an assassin, a master of the art of death, and her only contract was to make this man suffer.

The Dragonborn drew his breath, and Adaliah remembered the power of his Thu'um. "Fus-roh-DAH," he bellowed, but she had already rolled behind him and the shout reverberated uselessly through the empty air. This time, she slashed the backs of his knees. His armour was thick and her blades did not bite as deeply as she would have liked, but she heard him scream with anguish.

Now when he turned to her, his eyes were beginning to doubt. She leapt at him again, and again he threw her down, but she landed lightly. She had him on the run.

For a splitsecond he gazed at her face, silhouetted against the flames all around, as if marking her forever as his enemy. Then, he turned and ran. Adaliah gave a jubilant cry until she realized that Tristan had come to find her, and was standing near the low stone wall. The Dragonborn charged him with his blade ready.

Tristan was no fool. He blocked the first ferocious blow with his own sword - and the second, and the third, but on the fourth she saw him grit his teeth as the force of it rattled his bones. Adaliah's heart stood still; she urged herself to run, but she felt dreamlike, as if time itself were suspended. She was moving forward, but they were at least ten yards away.

The Dragonborn drew a great breath and unleashed the power of the Thu'um. Tristan was knocked back, flailing wildly, until he caught on the low stone wall and crumpled on the ground. The Dovahkiin laughed and kicked the sword out of his slackened hand. Adaliah pushed her legs faster, heart hammering with panic. She would not allow this man to rob her of the only friend in the world she had left. The great warrior raised his blade high about Tristan's bloodied head -

At full speed, Adaliah barrelled into him. Tristan covered his face with his arms. Time seemed to slow as the Dragonborn's feet tangled with Tristan's long limbs - he tripped, his knees buckled as the collided with the low stone wall, and he fell, roaring with rage, down the mountain and into Wynn's enchanted flames. A horrific scream rang out as the fire engulfed the Dovahkiin, spewing orange sparks into the charred air.

Adaliah's exhausted body gave way and she collapsed beside Tristan, who sat up, wincing. She touched his face, orange in the flow of the flames, red with the Dragonborn's spattered blood.

"Are you hurt?" she asked, her voice a raw croak.

His smooth head shook. "Just a little bruised up." He looked Adaliah up and down, and gently tucked a strand of dark hair behind her ear. "Are you alright?"

Adaliah didn't answer. She felt at the same time raw and numb; unable to process the chaos inside her and completely overcome. She leaned into Tristan and closed her eyes: she'd - _never_ \- thought to lose Wynn. For the first time in years, tears fell softly from her heavy eyes and onto Tristan's leather breastplate.

A sudden crash, an explosion of sparks. Adaliah and Triatan scrambled to their feet and looked up at the burning shrine. The cultists who were still alive were falling one by one, the daedric light left their possessed eyes and they toppled like broken toys. Boethiah was the Lord of Treachery and her shrine lay in ruins. She did not forgive.

Another crash, another burst of sparks from the flames below. A dark shadow moved within the blaze, and Adaliah stifled a gasp. The Dragonborn stood amidst the fire. His smouldering ebony mail fell from his body in pieces, it's power gone: Boethiah has deserted her great champion. His skin was black and charred, his bloody face glistened in the heat. He drew a breath and shouted, and on the last syllable his body again became ghostly and ethereal. Invulnerable to the flames, he turned and fled into the wilderness. The last Adaliah saw of him were his burning green eyes, glinting at her from the smoky blackness.


	11. Delayed Burial

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Adaliah's heart is broken, and so is his.

Tristan buried Wynn within a peaceful grove of trees, in a shallow grave dug from the frozen ground. Adaliah tried to help but found herself stumbling with shock, and before long Tristan sent her to tend to Wynn's horse instead.

"It's only a temporary grave," Tristan told her, "We can't bury him any deeper while the ground is frozen. In the summer we'll have to come back and move his bones to their final resting place."

They marked the grave with the biggest stone they could find and stood before the freshly turned earth quietly.

"Goodbye, my friend," Tristan whispered to Wynn's cold body. "Thank you for wisdom and good counsel. May your soul find peace in Sovengarde." He walked away to give Adaliah a moment alone. Snow drifted lazily through the dark trees.

What could she say that would match all Wynn had done for her? How he'd saved her, over and over, from the world and from herself? How he'd been her guiding light when her world was all darkness? How he'd given her a life, a life all her own, and brought her such joy with his gruff cleverness and wit? She closed her eyes. Her father, her brother, her moral compass… taken from her by the Dragonborn, the supposed _hero_ of Skyrim.

In the end, Adaliah said nothing and simply touched Wynn's grave lovingly. _I will avenge your death, my friend_ , she swore silently. _The Dovahkiin will bleed for what he's done_.

***

There was music and laughter in the golden light of Candlehearth Hall, where Adaliah and Tristan had taken rooms for the night. They sat, ales on the table before them at a quiet wooden table. She felt as if Wynn were there with them, just stopping at the bar, and at any moment that man over there - or _that_ man, or that one - would turn and it would be Wynn glancing around with that wry sparkle in his eye.

But Wynn was gone, and Adaliah would never again see his dancing grey eyes, she would never again feel the comforting weight of his hand on her shoulder. She would never hear his gruff voice or his snores. She squeezed her eyes shut; without him the world was a terrifying place.

"Adaliah?"

She opened her eyes and looked at Tristan hungrily, momentarily losing her grief in the angles of his face. He was bruised, there was a faint purple swelling on his brow, but otherwise he was unharmed. She was relieved, but also fearful, for his lovely blue eyes locked on her intently with something she imagined was distrust.

"The Dragonborn called you 'assassin'," he said. It was not a question, just a flat statement, as though the Dragonborn had confirmed something already suspected. Adaliah did not reply and just gazed at him shamelessly, memorizing his features. Now she was sure to lose him, and again she would be alone.

"I want you to know something." he said slowly, peering into his tankard as if it held the words he was looking for. A long moment passed.

"I went to war, Liah. I killed scores of people, some of them innocents, and they haunt me every night in my dreams."

What exactly was he meaning to say to her? Was he reminding her of the severity of her crimes? Perhaps her confusion showed in her face, for he continued, "What I mean is… I've done terrible things in my life. But I don’t think that I am an evil person. I just… did the best I could at the time. So, no matter what you used to be, or do… I want you to know that _it’s okay_."

Adaliah pressed her eyes closed once more against another upwelling of feeling. She didn’t deserve him, all his kindness and loyalty. He deserved so much better than a killer like her.

A soft touch brushed her cheekbone, her neck. She leaned into the warmth of his callused fingertips.

"You are a good person, Liah," he whispered to her, "Beautiful and kind and good. If in another life you were an assassin, I don’t believe that person is you anymore. I've seen you risk your life for Wynn and for me over and over. And look at you: you've just lost your very best friend, watched him die in front of you, and you're a mess. Does that sound like an assassin to you?"

Adaliah could not speak. She wanted to tell him everything; she wanted to hide. She wanted him close; she wanted to run. She held her cup tightly in trembling hands, then raised it up.

"To Wynn," she said quietly, looking Tristan right in the eye.

"To Wynn," he replied, sharing her intensity.

They drank, but not deeply. Adaliah's gaze was locked on Tristan's face and he did not look away. Slowly, as if afraid to scare him, Adaliah leaned towards him and pressed her full, pale lips to his. Tristan's hand held her there, gentle at the nape of her neck. She poured everything she could not say into the kiss: that she had fallen in love with him, but could never deserve him; that in her sadness she was a shell of a person and he was all she had left.

Finally they broke apart. Adaliah's throat felt dry, and she could see Tristan's eyes were hazy with desire. She kissed him again and stood from the table, taking his hands. She quietly led the way to Tristan's room upstairs. Their drinks stood abandoned on the barroom table.

Adaliah closed the door behind them, and the moment the lock clicked he had her in his arms. She felt his demanding kisses on her face, her hair, her neck and finally, desperately, her mouth. Her cloak slithered to the floor and they began to remove each other's armour, piece by piece. Tristan helped her pull his linen shirt over his head and peel the rest of his cloths away from his skin. His body in the candlelight was wiry and lean, hard muscle dense on his long limbs. He crushed her against his tall form, lifting her off her feet. Their embrace was rife with passionate intensity; every movement, every touch carried enough meaning to make Adaliah woozy.

Their smallcloths joined the jumble of garments on the floor and Tristan lay her gently on the single bed, moving with her, kissing her as if he would swallow her whole. His hands caressed her face, her neck; he stroked her small round breasts and narrow waist. Adaliah felt his thighs spread hers wide and she eagerly wrapped her legs around his hips as he positioned himself above her.

Suddenly, he stopped. His clear blue eyes warred between his own lust and their friendship. "Liah, are you sure - ?"

She brushed his face with her fingers, feeling the soft gold, and whispered his name in response. As she kissed his mouth, their bodies came together. Slowly, carefully, as if afraid she might break, Tristan pushed deeper, moving with a pulsing rhythm. Adaliah revelled in unthinking pleasure, an escape from her sadness, hands clutching at his back. Tristan looked at her in wonder as if she were the divine Dibella herself. How beautifully absurd, that she who had lived her life in shadow could crave being seen, being noticed? And Tristan saw her, he'd noticed her the moment they'd met, and she had pretended not to care and pretended not to feel, but ,oh, how long it had been since someone had truly looked at her!

A soft growl escaped him as his thrusts increased in intensity, and her pleasure built until she was not sure if she loved Tristan on hated him; if he was her friend or gravest enemy. All she knew was the passionate desire for _more_ , and sighed with delight as he obliged. Adaliah cried out in a blissful release that shook her slim frame. Tristan rocked faster until he gasped and fell heavily on her shoulder.

There were no words, no room in Adaliah's mind for any rational thought. She felt exposed, spread thin, as Tristan's long body curled around her. Only one thing she knew with certainty before the grief came rushing back, and this was that this simple interaction between them was one of the purest she'd experienced in her dark, twisted life.

***

Adaliah did not sleep soundly that night. Her head spun with questions. Wynn was gone, and her only purpose in life now was to avenge him.

It was clear that Boethiah had abandoned her Champion. Did that mean that her power in Skyrim was broken? Adaliah thought it very unlikely. As far as she knew, a daedric prince could not be defeated simply by destroying their shrine.

And the Dragonborn: who was he? More importantly, _where_ was he? She had no doubt that he was alive, and that someday he would come after her for revenge of his own. Would it not be better to hunt him down first?

Her eyes found Tristan's sleeping silhouette. She could just make out the handsome profile of his face as he slept, breathing deeply, one arm cradled around her shoulders. Tangled together, Adaliah's body melted into his as if it were where she belonged. But the Dragonborn had already targeted him once because of her, because of their friendship. How much danger would Tristan be in if her feelings for him were ever known?

She sighed heavily. How little she knew about her mysterious new enemy! She needed time, time to learn about the Dragonborn, to find his weak spot… just as she would have done to any dangerous target in her days as an assassin. And then she would kill him, in the slowest way she knew.

A guilty twinge in her stomach - Wynn would not have approved of this vengeful quest. But how was she to know what was right when her head spun, with confusion, with sadness, and with heartbreaking joy? She could now trust her mind right now. What she truly, desperately needed was space to think and decide her next action. Tristan lay beside her, warm and peaceful, but her presence placed him in mortal danger. Adaliah shuddered. She could find herself responsible for his death, too…

Adaliah, making her heart cold and hard as iron, made a decision. She slipped from Tristan's bed as light and quiet as a passing shadow. Collecting her scattered belongings from the ground, she dressed without a sound. Only after she'd wrapped her dark cloak around her shoulders and eased open the door did she look back. Tristan had not noticed her absence; he slept soundly on, one arm draped across the cold space where her body had lain.

 _We will meet again_ , thought Adaliah with feeling, and she stole out into the black night.

 

End of Volume 1

**Author's Note:**

> Post-game completed work, mostly according to canon. As always, I reserve the right to take creative liberties.


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